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ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


















- ./ 














1 






































ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


BY 

MARGARET L. WOODS 

i! 

AUTHOR OF 

“ A VILLAGE TRAGEDY,” ETC. 




I?”* 1 **, \ 

1 ) 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 


I50 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


Og- 037 S3b 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


CHAPTER I. 

Somewhere in St. James’ there must still be a pleas- 
ant room with three tall windows looking over the 
wide street. A long time ago the middle one was 
the favourite resort of Ginckel Vanhomrigh, who 
knew a dozen pretty ways of leaning in the embra- 
sure, or lounging on the little iron balcony which 
then projected from the front of the house. It was 
summer ; there was a clearness, an indefinable cheer- 
fulness about the sounds that floated in through the 
open window, which would have made even a blind 
man conscious that it was also morning and sunny 
weather. In contrast to the glow of sunshine outside, 
the room with its dark wainscoting and heavy cur- 
tains looked dim, except where the women’s light 
dresses and a great flowered beau-pot of roses, fresh 
from some country garden, gleamed through the twi- 
light. But St. James’ Street was comparatively quiet, 
for the great world was out of town, though painted 
coaches and swift chaises rolled in from Kensington 
and Chiswick, and occasionally a Cabinet Minister 
or some other person of quality sauntered by on the 
shady side. This was fortunate for Ginckel, who 
otherwise might have been unable to disguise from 
himself that he lacked his due tribute of admiration 
that morning, the party in the parlour being too 
nearly related to him or too intent upon their own 
concerns to appreciate the graces which elsewhere 
made his unsubstantial fortune. Sarah Stone, indeed, 
looked at him pretty often, but the cheerful satisfac- 
tion which beamed from her prominent eyes was 
the reverse of complimentary. It said, as plainly as 


8 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


her tongue said afterwards in the privacy of the 
sisterly bed-chamber, “I'm sure I blush to think as 
ever I let my fancy run on that popinjay of a cousin 
Vanhomrigh. O Lord ! Suppose he had closed with 
the bargain and me missed getting my Mr. Harris ! ” 

Mrs. Stone was exerting all the dignity apnropri- 
ate to her large flabby face and figure, to repress 
every sign of her exultation, as she detailed to her 
sister-in-law Vanhomrigh the particulars of Sarah's 
very advantageous match. Perhaps a vague feeling 
of pique added to the natural solemnity of her man- 
ner, for Mrs. Vanhomrigh was almost too sincerely 
delighted ; the least suspicion of jealousy in the back- 
ground of her congratulations would have made them 
more flattering. But in truth Madam Van took much 
too sanguine a view of her own daughters and their 
prospects to be easily moved to jealousy, and a 
marriage, anybody’s marriage, from the kitchen- 
maid’s to the heir-apparent’s, was to her so inexhaus- 
tibly pleasing and exciting an event, that it was too 
much to expect her to be annoyed at the prospect of 
one in her own family. As she leaned half out of 
her chair listening eagerly, a graceful bright-eyed 
woman with one delicate thin hand clasping the ends 
of the lace Steinkirk which served her for a cap, she 
kept rapidly throwing Mrs. Stone’s bits of informa- 
tion over her right shoulder to her son, or more oc- 
casionally over her left to her daughters ; not because 
they could not hear their aunt’s deliberate utterances 
if so minded, but out of sheer impatience to hand on 
the news to somebody. 

“Ginckel, my dear! Mr. Harris has the chap- 
laincy to the Goldsmiths’ Company, and is to preach 
before the Lord Mayor and Corporation. Essie shall 
recommend him to the Doctor. Girls, girls, d’ye 
hear, Mr. Harris stands six feet two in his stockings ! 
Ginckel, only fancy ! Mr. Harris has a living of 
£500 a year, and the most commodious new built 
parsonage in the county. 

This was irritating to Ginckel, who mistakenly sup- 
posed his parent to be reflecting on his own refusal 
to entertain the most distant idea of a match with 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


9 

Miss Sarah. He hoped his manner of taking snuff 
and brushing his coat-sleeve expressed his unabated 
contempt for the lady, her person, fortune, and social 
position. 

“A living of £300,” corrected Mrs. Stone in her fat 
dull voice, 11 and expectations — an uncle just home 
from the Indies, and gone up to the breast in a creep- 
ing palsy.” 

“ Oh, ma’am, you hadn’t better reckon on him,” put 
in the proud but cautious bride; “he’s none so 
old, and may last longer than some of us ; they’re 
all such fine men in the Harris family.” 

“Lud, niece,” cried Mrs. Vanhomrigh, “so long 
as you get something, what signifies if it’s to-day or 
to-morrow ? Expectations, say I, good expectations, 
are better any day than savings, money as you’ve 
pined and stinted yourself to lay by, and then can’t 
get no just interest for, and very likely take out and 
spend for mere anger at being so treated by a pack 
of rascally attorneys. There’s my own cousin Pur- 
vis, seventy years of age if she’s a day, as upright as 
Sarah there, and able to do fine tambour work with- 
out her glasses ; I reckoned her to be as good as an 
annuity saving up for my old age, and then, as I often 
tell the children, I’ll divide all the rest of my fortune 
among ’em and never want anything but to see ’em 
happy, and my grandchildren about me.” 

And Mrs. Vanhomrigh ended, glancing round the 
circle with a triumphant smile, as one perennially 
unconvinced that there could exist a reasonable 
creature that disagreed with her. Indeed, there was 
a persuasiveness about her bright eyes, her quick 
speech with its faint reminiscence of a brogue, and 
above all, her unshaken confidence in the justice of 
her own sentiments and opinions, which lent a mo- 
mentary respectability to the most outrageous ones 
she might be pleased to express. 

Mrs. Stone, however, was not one to be surprised 
into the most trifling deviation from the straight line. 
“Iam not of your mind, sister,” she replied stiffly. 
“ As a clergyman, I am sure Mr. Stone could not ap- 
prove of such principles. But, as I was saying, what 


IO 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


with Mr. Harris’ cure and Sarah’s own little fortin — 
for my girls won’t go penniless to no man, — she’ll 
have enough and to spare for a young woman that 
has been plainly brought up and not set above her- 
self by book-learning and company that’s too fine for 
her.” 

At this home-thrust Molly Vanhomrigh raised her 
eyes from her own pretty foot, which she had been 
pointing and balancing some inches from the ground, 
either for the pleasure of looking at it, or as an accom- 
paniment to certain idle dreams. She glanced up with 
a mischievous smile at her sister, at whom her aunt no 
doubt more particularly aimed. At the mention of 
the too well known name of cousin Purvis the least 
trace of a perpendicular line had shown itself on 
Essie’s white brow, but it was gone, and she not only 
seemed, but was, totally unconscious that Mrs. 
Stone had spoken with any special intention. Nor 
did it occur to her as she stood with her hands clasped 
behind her and her head a little thrown back, that 
an attitude to her so natural that it was becoming, 
was unusual in a young lady, and therefore laid her 
open to her aunt’s severe animadversions and her 
cousins’ small pleasantries. Esther Vanhomrigh was 
a stnvight, tall young woman, in figure rather robust 
than what is generally termed graceful ; but in that 
very robustness there was grace of a kind — some- 
thing that gave pleasure to an unvitiated eye — and 
her skin was white, softer in tone but not less pure 
than her white gown. Her cousins observed her to 
be dressed with a studied simplicity this morning, and 
whereas she had been used to wear her hair dressed 
in curls, it was now brushed up under a plain cap. 
Its rough crisp waves, rebellious to the straightening 
brush, were of a light golden brown. The dark eye- 
brows and deepset grey eyes, which she owed to her 
mother, and the broad forehead above them, gave an 
undeniable impressiveness to her face. As to its 
beauty there were different opinions. 

The fragile Francis Earle, leaning against the man- 
tel-piece with a book in one hand, looked at her over 
the top of it with an inscrutable expression ; admira- 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGII. 


II 


tion, discontent, mockery — it might have been con- 
strued to mean all or any, but its most obvious mean- 
ing was mockery. 

“Montaigne again!’' he said. “Since last I 
played with this book — the Lord preserve me from 
reading it ! — since then, I say, you have vented nine 
separate attacks of the spleen on these venerable 
pages. The nine reasons for ’em, Miss Essie, or the 
one reason for the nine ? ” 

“Put it as you please,” replied she carelessly. 

“Perhaps they stand for the nine most intolerable 
times old Ann has pulled my hair while she was dress- 
ing it ; and you know we durst not complain — oh, 
we durst not for our lives ! Only I like to keep some 
sage at my dressing-table to take my scratches and 
lend me his philosophy.” 

“Sage ? Sage ? ” questioned Francis. “ Is his name 
Montaigne when in the flesh ? Philosophy ? That 
is a long word, and what it means in a lady’s mouth 
I cannot possibly guess.” 

“ Not so much nonsense as in a gentleman’s, you 
must agree,” retorted she, “ since we cannot mean 
Aristotle and all that, of which we know nothing, 
and which you tell me is by far the greatest non- 
sense in the world.” 

“ Alas ! how should I love the nymph Philosophy 
whom I have not seen, when I do not love the phil- 
osophers whom I have seen ? But you, Miss Essie, 
I believe you love ’em. Tell me now, do you not love 
a philosopher above everything ? ” 

It was impossible to say if Esther was deliberately 
ignoring certain personal meanings in her interlocu- 
tor’s remarks, or whether she really had not ob- 
served them. 

“ I cannot answer your question. I do not 
know any philosopher as yet,” she answered; “but 
when I am presented to Mr. Berkeley I will tell you 
— no, I certainly will not tell you, if I love him.” 

The young man dropped Montaigne beside the 
roses so sharply that the little Dutch table and the 
china pot rattled again. 

“ Pooh ! ” he said ; “you need not. If you do not 


12 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


love him, you will at any rate love to be acquainted 
with him. There never was a less artless dissembler 
than you, miss, and we all know your ruling passions 
sooner than yourself. To walk up the Mall with 
Doctor Swift, and down it with Mr. Pope ; in one 
round of the Ring to capture a compliment from Mr. 
Gay, a Eowdee from Mr. Prior, and a bow from Mr. 
Addison ; this, my dear Hess, is your ambition. 
Faith ! ’tis an odd one.” 

“ I own 'tis uncommon,” she answered, sticking 
out a little more a chin that was too heavy for 
beauty ; “ but Prince Posterity is on my side. Is he 
not proud to be acquainted with Homer and Horace, 
and mighty little concerned to know the fat lords 
that fed them ? ” 

“ Fie ! the comparison is as upside down as your 
face in a spoon. His Highness loves wit disencum- 
bered of the wits : while you — Well ! well ! I own 
there is one thing you love better than to be ac- 
quainted with a wit. ” 

“ I cannot guess what that is, Master Francis.” 

“To acquaint us with the fact that you know 
them. Mr. Spectator commends our taste, Mr. Tatler 
our coffee. A post ! a post ! These with speed to 
all whom it does not concern ! Why, such news 
must be spread even so far as Oxford, to so obscure 
a personage as Francis Earle, esquire — scholar, I 
mean. ” 

If the young man’s object was to annoy, he had 
at length succeeded. Esther coloured as she seated 
herself on the sofa at a little distance from him. 

“ O thou censorious brat !” she cried. “But be 
satisfied. Never again shalt thou be plagued with 
news, with a fine ruffle, a shirt, a bottle of sweet 
waters, or anything else that is good from thy kind 
cousins. Though there are gentlemen, mind you, and 
fine gentlemen too, that would be pleased enough 
to get ’em.” 

He followed, and dropped down between her and 
Molly, laughing silently. 

“ Mercy ! mercy ! How angry you are because I 
tear the mask from your female vanity ! Yet ’tis not 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGIf. 


*3 

for diversion I do’t. No ! but all on poor Molly’s ac- 
count, because you grow arrogant and despise her. 
There, don’t deny it, Moll, for she does despise you. 
What reason can she have to wear a plain cap and 
love philosophers, except to set herself above the 
misses who wear pretty shoes and love lords ? ” 

It was Molly’s turn to redden and bite her fan. 
It was true that she had a little of her mother’s 
childish delight in fine company, but even of that 
she was ashamed before her more austere sister, and 
she feared Francis had some more particular mean- 
ing. 

“I have not wit nor Essie malice enough to rally 
with you, sir,” she said ; “so pray take it we have 
hauled down our colours, and cease firing.” 

“Not wit, miss? Demme, not wit?” cried fat 
young Edward Stone, staffing from an open-eyed 
doze, edging his chair nearer, and settling a cravat 
which required as much attention as some modern 
shirt-cuffs. “Gad, though ! you’ve a very pretty wit. 
Quite enough wit for a lady, say I.” 

“ Why, cousin, how can you tell ’tis always 
enough ? ” asked Esther, with a smile, turning on 
her cousin that direct look of hers, which the beaux 
were apt to feel vaguely uncomplimentary, since it 
betrayed no consciousness that their approval was of 
importance to her. “ Enough wit for a lady, means, 
I suppose, enough to exercise a gentleman’s wit 
and not enough to match it.” 

“Just so, miss,” returned Mr. Stone, pleased to 
find himself conversing, for this happened to him very 
rarely. “ Oddso ! you take my meaning precisely.” 

“ Oh, cousin ! ” cried Molly, pouting, “how can 
you say that, when you know ’twas a compliment 
you meant me, and no meaning else in it whatever ? 
Sure I’ll never forgive you if you let sister go ex- 
plaining away your pretty speeches to me. Indeed, 
sir, you shall swear you meant nothing in the world 
but a compliment to me.” 

That two young ladies on their promotion might 
be laughing at a solid and rising young gentleman 
from the City was an idea too preposterous to occur 


14 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


to a well-regulated mind, so Edward Stone replied by 
slowly involving himself in manifold excuses and 
protestations, staring all the time with dull but grow- 
ing admiration into Cousin Molly’s pretty face. It 
was pleasant to look at it, and pleasant too to show 
his mother and sisters his masculine independence of 
their feminine likes and dislikes by openly admiring 
a Vanhomrigh girl. As to Miss Molly, being un- 
deniably both a coquette and a tease, it amused her 
equally to captivate her cousin and to scandalize 
her aunt. 

Meanwhile Ginckel had hurriedly left the room 
and flown to the street door, to intercept a young 
man in riding-boots, who came lounging past. Pres- 
ently the boots were heard on the stairs. Ginckel 
announced “ My Lord Mordaunt, ” and a youth, re- 
markably tall and also remarkably handsome, en- 
tered the room. There was an indifference that 
amounted to impertinence in the expression of his 
pale face with the heavy-lidded eyes, as he per- 
formed his bow at the door, and after a pause, 
apparently of doubt whether or not to exert him- 
self so far, extended a limp hand. Mrs. Vanhom- 
righ had risen as he came in, and, breaking through 
her conversation as though her sister-in-law had sud- 
denly ceased to exist, darted towards him, joy beam- 
ing from her bright eyes. Had she not already, in 
day and night dreams, embraced him as her son-in- 
law, and saluted her Molly as Lady Mordaunt ? Her 
delight in the prospect was frank, but by no means gro- 
velling ; for there was no match her girls could 
achieve fine enough to surprise her, and she was fully 
as pleased to think Molly would make half of a very 
pretty couple, as that she would have a coronet on her 
coach, and eventually the finest pearls in the peerage. 
For Lord Mordaunt was heir to the Earldom of Peter- 
borough. If the marriage was projected in Ginckel’s 
head, planned down to the wedding-favours in his 
mother s and tremblingly dreamed of in little Molly’s, 
there was no reason to suppose the idea of it had 
found any place whatever in the young man's. He 
was but twenty, and by no means of an ardent dis- 


ESTHER V A NIIOMRIGH. 


*5 

position. As he seated himself at Molly's side totally 
ignoring his hostess and every one else in the parlour, 
he smiled languidly as one expecting the curtain to 
rise on an agreeable comedy ; for she was indeed 
pretty as some gay-feathered bird, this Molly Van- 
homrigh, with her sparkling eyes, her soft irregular 
face, her small rounded figure and white little 
hands. 

Esther disliked Lord Mordaunt. She sat silent 
and contemplated her sister with a mind full of mis- 
giving. Meantime another person was looking across 
the room at herself, somewhat similarly disquieted on 
her behalf. This was Mr. Erasmus Lewis, Under 
Secretary of State, who had joined Lord Mordaunt on 
the road from Windsor, and entered a little behind him. 
Mr. Lewis, more courteous than his young acquaint- 
ance, paid his devoirs to Mrs. Vanhomrigh, conscious 
all the time of a certain sealed paper packet in his 
breast-pocket, superscribed To Mrs. Esther Vanhorn - 
righ, Junior , at her lodgings in St. James'. It was not 
the first time that he had brought such a missive, and 
he knew the quick flush of carnation colour, the 
proud smile and brightening glance with which it 
would be received ; for was it not written with the 
very hand of Jonathan Swift, the poet, the wit, the 
prince of pamphleteers, the chosen companion of 
brilliant Bolingbroke and all-powerful Harley? Of 
Swift, at this moment perhaps the most influential 
commoner in England, not by any accident of posi- 
tion, but by sheer force of his pre-eminent mind, which 
seemed for a too brief time, able to subdue all pettier 
spirits under it, and weld together the mean and 
shifting elements of political factions. 

“I recognize your flowers, Miss Esther,” said Mr. 
Lewis at length, crossing the room and touching the 
roses in the beau-pot ; “ the poor Doctor plucked them 
last evening in my Lord Peterbrow’s garden at Par- 
son’s Green, while the rest of us were eating the finest 
peaches in the world.” 

“’Twas my guardian spirit whispered him to get 
’em forme,” cried Essie; “I shall threaten him, if 
he runs after Mrs. Hyde, I’ll recall the kind creature, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


16 

and then he will ‘ munch and crunch/ as he says, 
and have a bad head.” 

“ Recall it at once, my dear miss,” said Mr. Lewis. 
“You have plenty of reason already. All the men 
are not out of town that beauty can afford to be thus 
undefended by her guardian angel ! ” And he clapped 
his little red heels together, and bowed with his hat 
on his heart. “Besides, what unsuitable things the 
guardian angel of a fine young miss must whisper 
to an elderly divine ! No no, you must recall it at 
once.” 

Essie made her curtsey in response to his bow, but, 
sticking two or three flowers in her bodice with a 
mutinous smile, “Sure, sir, I shall not be so ungrate- 
ful to Dr. Swift,” she answered. “ ’Twould be an 
ill return for my nosegay. ” 

“Miss need not be over-grateful for that,” sneered 
Lord Mordaunt, who had a languid but sincere dislike 
to Esther. “The old putt of a parson deserves no 
credit for gallantry. ‘A plague on these flowers ! ’ 
says he, ‘ I must needs pull ’em, and now what shall 
I do with ’em ? I’ll give ’em to a lady/ says he, 

‘ ’tis ever the best way to rid oneself handsomely of 
ones rubbish ; ’ and you may guess if Mrs. Hyde or 
any one else wanted ’em after that. So he sends ’em 
into town by his Lordship’s courier, that was just in 
the saddle coming this road.” 

“I must own ’twas done somewhat after that fash- 
ion,” Mr. Lewis apologized, “but his Lordship has 
barely been presented to the Doctor, and seems not 
familiar with his manner, while I doubt not Miss 
Essie knows it well.” 

“That I do, sir, and none pleases me better/’cried 
she, tossing her chin up with a smile, and disdaining 
to look at Lord Mordaunt. Then to herself trium- 
phantly, “ He gathered them for me, whatever they 
may say.” 

And she was right, for Swift had thought of her di- 
rectly he caught sight of the wide border full of late- 
blooming roses under Lord Peterborough’s southern 
wall. Just such pink roses Esther had worn stuck 
in her blue bodice when Swift and she had walked 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


17 

in Kensington Gardens one evening last June. What 
an amusement it was to him to secretly detain Lord 
Peterborough’s courier, to pluck them for her, and 
then to play “ hide-and-seek,” as he called it, with 
the ladies, till each one imagined she had had the 
refusal of his flowers, and' then — well it must be con- 
fessed that feeing the courier for his trouble had not 
amused him at all, but still he had done it. 

“Can you not persuade Hess to visit Windsor, Mr. 
Lewis ? ” asked Mrs. Vanhomrigh, daintily pettish. 
“ Plague take the child ! We had planned the pleas- 
antest jaunt there, to see the Doctor, and to take tea 
with his Lordship on the way home, and now, if 
you’ll believe me, she won’t let us go at all. Lord ! 
Lord ! Well may the Doctor call her Governor 
Huff.’’ 

“Mr. Lewis, ma’am, has brought persuasion that 
cannot be resisted, ” said Esther, with rose-red cheeks 
and sparkling eyes, and read out from her opened 
letter : — 

“Dr. Swift’s compliments and also his duty to the 
three ladies Van, and he will be obliged to them to 
know what day they will please to honour his lodg- 
ings at Windsor, which he must not call poor, be- 
cause they are not his own, and because they are very 
fine, madams all, and within the Castle wall — and 
so antique and with so fine a prospect from the win- 
dow they are enough to turn some folks romantick. 
Ladies, your very humble servant, Dr. Swift, awaits 
your pleasures. ’’ 

The letter was dated Windsor , August 20 ih, 1712. 

Francis Earle’s quick eyes noticed there was an- 
other slip of paper inside the letter, which she did not 
read out. It ran thus : — 

“To Miss Hess Vanhom. Pray will Governor Huff 
accept this ? A formal , a humble invitation must I re- 
ceive, says she. Well, Miss, don’t that begin formal 
and end humble ? Besides I want some more of 
your coffee, d'ye hear ? This is for Miss Essy’s pri- 
2 


i8 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


vate eye : t’other to be shown. ‘I cannot be sly,' 
says she. ‘Yes, but you shall be as sly as I please,’ 
says he.” 

“’Tis plain, child, you must go,” cried Madame 
Van, beaming round on the company. “You see 
the Doctor won’t let you off, though he’s the good- 
naturedest man in the world. We must order the 
coach early, for there will be the Castle and the Park 
to visit, and Eton College, and the Doctor’s lodgings, 
and Lord Mordaunt’s fine house which we must see, 
and we might have a water-party too ; then there are 
Mr. Pinchbeck’s musical clocks — I wouldn’t miss see- 
ing ’em for the world — and then, my dears, we should 
never pass so near Cousin Purvis atTwittenham with- 
out making her our Howdees. ’Twill be a most de- 
lightful expedition. You must all come, all, Sister 
Stone, and never consider of the charges, for I’ll treat 
you every one.” 


CHAPTER II. 

The September sky wore its most stainless blue over- 
head, deepening round the horizon to a vaporous 
purple, flecked with the pearl-coloured edges of a few 
faint clouds. The wide valley of the Thames lay 
transfigured jn the rich light and richer mist of early 
autumn ; an atmosphere through which its familiar 
heights looked blue, remote, mysterious, as moun- 
tains in a dream. Nearer the sunshine lay broad on 
the golden stubble-fields and smooth water-meadows 
where the young grass was shooting green under the 
grey willows and the shimmering alder thickets that 
mark the silver windings of the Thames. The belts 
and masses of distant woodland, blurred in the haze, 
looked dark almost to blackness, but here and there 
on the pale-leaved willows and massive elms a splash 
of yellow gave token of the waning year, and in the 
hedgerows great clusters of ripe cornel-berries glowed 
scarlet in the sun. In the lanes, where bush and bank 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


'9 

were still hung with trails of gold left behind by 
the harvest waggons as they passed, the flickering 
shadows of the leaves pressed as close on each other 
as ever, and made a pleasant coolness, but the sun 
beat fiercely on the high road. 

“Well, I never was hotter, nor ever shall be, if the 
Lord will forgive me my sins ! ” laughed Mrs. Van- 
homrigh, waving a big fan that sent a pleasant 
draught through the stuffy coach. She spoke with 
the cheerfulness of one to whom the discomforts of a 
jaunt are part of the amusement. The youngest 
Miss Stone, who sat between her and Mrs. Stone, 
shared the heat but not her sentiments. 

“1 protest, ma’am, your fan makes more dust 
than air,” cried she crossly. She had come partly to 
see Windsor Castle, and partly because she had 
understood from her mamma that the Vanhomrighs 
saw a great deal too much fine company ; a repre- 
hensible but perhaps agreeable practice. However, 
only Ginckel and Francis Earle were in the rumble. 
Ginckel was as much out of temper as herself, 
fearing the effects of the sun and dust on his pearl- 
coloured waistcoat and pale blue coat, and afraid to 
betray his anxiety to Francis. As a man of the 
world he despised his cousin, whose name was but 
a title of courtesy, and who owed his place under 
their roof to Mrs. Vanhomrighs ridiculous gen- 
erosity — a form of extravagance with which her 
son had no sympathy — but though one might be 
indifferent to the youth’s opinion, it was difficult to 
remain indifferent to his tongue, which was of the 
sharpest. 

Francis was in reality too self-absorbed to have 
even a sarcasm at the service of another. He was 
going through that common stage in the development 
of persons of character, when the limits of their lives 
seem to have become too narrow to admit of the 
comfortable exercise of their powers ; when they suf- 
fer from moral cramps and mental growing-pains, 
tear at the most immutable barriers with the sanguine 
impatience of some newly-caught wild creature, and 
rend the most harmless objects with the fury of a 


20 


ESTHER VANHOMRluH. 


puppy encouraging its teeth; a stage, in short, when 
to themselves and others, they are infinitely unpleas- 
ant. But Francis’ was a practical mind. His griev- 
ances were not wholly imaginary, and his present 
object was perfectly definite, if difficult of attainment. 
Three-and-twenty years ago his mother, a cousin 
of Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s, had gone to Holland among 
the household of an ambassador ; soon afterwards 
she had returned to England under the protection, of 
some man of quality. She did not tell her family 
his name or communicate with them further, for 
though such an episode was then commonly reckoned 
trifling and even creditable in the career of a young 
gentleman, in that ot a young lady its disgracefulness 
was fully admitted. Seven years later, when, Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh’s uncle had unexpectedly risen to be a 
Canon of Chester, his grandson was brought to his 
door, fortunately after dark, by a man of business. 
His daughter was dead. The man of business, Mr. 
Wilson of Old Windsor, stated that the child’s father 
was willing to act fairly by it ; that he would pay a 
small sum yearly through Mr. Wilson for its education 
and maintenance, till it had reached the age of 
twenty-one, and would then consider its case; but on 
condition that no questions were asked and no trou- 
ble of any kind given. If its relations declined to 
receive it, it was to be put to school at once. The 
Canon was a widower, a student, a leading eccle- 
siastic, and this child of six, whose existence it would 
be difficult to explain, was not a welcome addition to 
his household. Mrs. Vanhomrigh, who had greatly 
admired her cousin Fanny, happened at the time to 
be staying at Chester on her way to Dublin, and 
with her usual impetuous kind-heartedness, offered 
to take Fanny’s boy off his hands. From that time 
she honestly endeavoured to treat him as one of her 
own family, whom as children she was wont to 
overwhelm for three days with love and attention, 
and then forget for a week in a whirl of amusement 
and excitement. He was a shy and sickly but ob- 
stinate and fiery child, and would have fared ill at 
the hands of the two Vanhomrigh boys — for there 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


21 


were then two— had it not been for the protection of 
the robust Essie, who, though not a year older than 
himself, was as big and as ready with her hands as 
her brothers. Both she and Molly grew fond of 
Francis. Unlike their own brothers, he was clever 
enough to be a companion to them, and not strong 
enough to be domineering. But Esther was his par- 
ticular ally, either because she was less sensitive than 
Molly to his sharp tongue, or because he was often 
ill and she had early constituted herself his nurse. 
For these or for some subtler reasons, certain contrasts 
and resemblances in their characters, such as blended 
in the indefinable just proportion, make friendships 
and loves that are important and of the essence of 
life, as distinguished from the many which are trivial 
and among its accidents. Such being Francis Earle’s 
position in the Vanhomrigh family, it was almost 
inevitable that Swift’s domestication there should not 
be to his taste. Be the hearthrug never so large, 
the dog in possession cannot resist an inclination to 
snarl at the canine stranger who proposes to share it 
with him. In this case the intruder made matters 
worse by completely ignoring the occupier. Francis’ 
sharp eyes were sharpened by jealousy and dislike of 
Swift, and he saw more clearly than any one how day 
by day Esther’s thoughts centred more entirely on 
her great and brilliant friend. Mrs. Vanhomrigh had 
given up the sum paid for his maintenance to his 
education, and until a year ago he had thrown all his 
fiery energy and stubborn determination into study, 
and had been not only officially but in every respect 
a scholar— one who looked forward to literature and 
the Church as his roads to distinction. Accident, the 
failure of sundry attempts at verse, and the chance 
acquisition of a military friend — either this or the 
natural development of his character, had lately 
changed the current of his ambitions. When his 
twenty-first birthday was drawing near, Mr. Wilson 
wrote to say that his anonymous parent being advised 
of his excellent parts, had authorized the continu- 
ation of his allowance till his Oxford course was com- 
pleted, and would then see to it that he obtained a 


22 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGH. 


fellowship or a chaplaincy. Francis wrote in return 
that he should prefer a commission in the army. Mr. 
Wilson not unnaturally replied that the young man 
might take his client’s offer or leave it. Affairs had 
been left in this condition, and it occurred to him 
that he might avail himself of the Vanhomrighs’ ex- 
pedition to Windsor to reopen the matter with the 
attorney ; not indeed to sue, to plead, for that was 
not his way, but to demonstrate to the man by irre- 
sistible arguments how perfectly in the wrong he, Mr. 
Wilson, was. This seemed the easier because so far 
he had not discussed the matter with any one but 
himself. 

When the coach went up hill he jumped down and 
walked to stretch his impatient legs, and to get hot- 
ter and increase his irritation by the sight of Esther 
inside, looking very cool and fair, in spite of the 
heat. She had put on a blue damask dress, white 
kerchief and straw hat, which were all particularly 
fresh and neat. She scarcely noticed him, but leaned 
back with drooping eyelids and a face sometimes 
grave, sometimes faintly smiling, but always dream- 
ily happy. Molly sat by her, attired like her sister, 
and thinking thoughts not very unlike hers, but flushed 
and restless and full of laughter and gay chatter. 

So the coach rolled on, ever nearing the high Cas- 
tle whose dim majestic towers rise in the background 
of so many pleasant homely landscapes — spired vil- 
lages, elm-bordered meadows, and shining reaches 
of the river — crowning them all with a vision of 
old romance. 

Before the wheels rattled over the stones of Wind- 
sor and the coachman urged his tired steeds to 
one last effort up the hill, two gentlemen were await- 
ing the coach and its occupants at a tavern opposite 
the Castle gates. The later of the two to arrive was 
Lord Mordaunt, who drove up in a neat chaise, very 
genteelly and becomingly dressed, and wearing a 
full brown peruke tied with a scarlet ribbon. The 
other, who wore a clerical gown and bands, had 
walked over from the Castle a few minutes before 
his arrival. His Lordship honoured this gentleman 


2 3 


ESTHER VA NHOMRlGH. 

with the slightest possible bow and a carelessly con- 
descending greeting ; he had been taught to expect 
obsequiousness from parsons, and fancied that, left 
alone with this one, he could soon teach him his 
place. The parson paused in his mechanical pacing 
of the tavern parlour, and looked at Lord Mordaunt 
for about two minutes, which seemed to that young 
nobleman a disagreeably long time. He was too 
young and too ignorant to understand his antago- 
nist’s importance in the world, but he instinctively 
felt his boyish arrogance of rank fall shattered before 
a far deeper and more masterful pride than his own. 

“Your servant, young gentleman,” said the 
parson, removing the terror of his look from the 
youth’s face and returning his bow. “You can sit 
down.” 

Before he well knew what he was doing, Lord 
Mordaunt had sat down, a most unwonted flush 
suffusing the tired pallor of his handsome features. 
The other continued his walk up and down, up and 
down, like a lion in his den. Dr. Swift — the awe- 
inspiring parson was no less a personage — was about 
forty-five years old, but considerably younger in 
appearance, tall, of a stately presence and an impres- 
sive countenance. He wore a dark peruke, his eye- 
brows were black, and the closest shaving left a blue- 
black shade on cheek and chin ; but his eyes were as 
azure blue as those of any Phillis or Chloe be-rhymed 
by the poets, and could more truly than such are 
feigned to do, smile as brightly or lower as terribly 
as heaven itself. 

After a while he stopped opposite Lord Mordaunt, 
and looking at him attentively, but after a less an- 
nihilating fashion, “Pray, are you not studying at the 
University, my Lord ? ” he asked. 

The young man had by this time recovered his 
presence of mind, and determined to pluck up a spirit. 

“ Sir, I am at the University, but I am not study- 
ing,” he answered, not raising his eyes, but speak- 
ing to his boot, which he was dusting with an 
embroidered cambric handkerchief. 

“Can you read Greek, my Lord ? ” asked Swift, 


24 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


Lord Mordaunt sat up, lifted his eyebrows and 
smiled superciliously. 

‘‘Gad, sir!” he said, “do I look like an usher 
or a sucking parson ? ” 

“No, young man,” returned the Doctor in a quiet 
but ominous voice ; “you do not look like anything 
with an ounce of brains in its head or of virtue in its 
heart. And now I have answered your question, you 
are bound in common civility to answer mine. Can 
you read Greek ? ” 

Again to his infinite mortification Lord Mor- 
daunt found himself quailing. 

“Sir, I cannot,” he answered sulkily. 

“So much the better, my Lord,” said the Doc- 
tor, keeping his eye on that of his subject, like a 
lion-tamer, “so much the better; now I can hon- 
estly take a guinea of you. 'Twill be a very 
small price you will pay for making Homer’s ac- 
quaintance in an English dress pretty nearly as 
fine as his Greek one. ” 

“Demme, Doctor, what d’ye mean? The fellow 
may be in a French dancing dress for all I care ! 
I won’t have his beggarly acquaintance at no price.” 
And Lord Mordaunt dug at the boards with his 
cane. He felt that the situation was getting seri- 
ous since money was in question. 

“We’ll pass you that then,” said the Doctor. “You 
shall pay for the honour of assisting the greatest poet 
of this age.” 

“O, sir,” replied Lord Mordaunt with a sneer, “you 
should ha’ told me before ’twas for yourself ! I didn’t 
know you was in difficulties.” 

Swift made a gesture of impatience : “ Mr. Alexan- 
der Pope is the gentleman to whose translation you 
will have the honour to subscribe.” 

“Gad, Doctor, you must excuse my mistake, but 
Lord, how the fashions change ! ” His Lordship took 
snuff after the manner of Lord Bolingbroke. “ Last 
year they told me you was the greatest poet of the 
age.” 

“Then they lied,” replied the Doctor drily, “or 
they were fools that believed ’em ! If you wish to 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


25 

know what poetry is, young man, you must read the 
works of Mr. Pope.” 

Lord Mordaunt’s little attempt to turn the enemy’s 
position having failed, he relapsed into sulkiness. 
“Damn poetry!” he said, assuming an attitude of 
resistance, his hands in his pockets, and his legs 
stretched out straight before him. “What’s poetry 
to me ? I am a man of quality.” 

“Aye, that’s just it,” roared the grim parson, flash- 
ing on him again that terrible look, “ that’s what your 
Lordship must pay for. Why do you suppose we 
free Britons keep such creatures and worship ’em 
too ? Because, think you, ’tis only men of quality that 
can be idle and profane, ignorant and debauched? 
On my conscience your lacqueys can do that part 
of your business as well as you. No, sir, we keep- 
’em, that they may be splendid, be generous, that they 
may pay, pay — pay poets for us to read. Come, now 
your poll-tax, your guinea. A lord and mean ? Oh, 
fie, fie ! ” And he took out a pocket-book in which a 
long list of subscriptions, already entered, attested the 
success of his labours elsewhere. 

Lord Mordaunt sat sulkily immovable in body, 
but swayed this way and that in mind. In the first 
place, deeply as it galled him, he could not but bow 
to the dominance of Swift’s overpowering person- 
ality ; in the second, he felt all the dislike of a splen- 
did youth of twenty to the appearance of stinginess. 
Yet like many other splendid youths, it was only 
from the appearance of it that he shrunk ; for his lav- 
ishness to himself was only equalled by his meanness 
to others. 

There was a clatter of hoofs and a rattle of wheels. 

“There come the ladies,” said his persecutor look- 
ing out of the window. “ What ! Shall they find me 
dunning you for a guinea — a paltry guinea ? ” 

“’Tis but a guinea, as you say — a cursed guinea,” 
and with an angry laugh the young man fumbled in 
his waistcoat pocket and flung the coin on the tavern 
table. Dr. Swift pocketed it and bowed with grave 
civility. “Your servant, my Lord,” he said. “I am 
obliged to you. Mr. Pope shall be informed of your 


26 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


Lordship’s donation. ” And he opened the door for 
Lord Mordaunt to pass out. 

They were both on the threshold of the tavern, as 
the arrivals drove up, but before either had time to 
touch the coach door, it was flung wide, and Esther 
leaped to the ground and stood with both white 
ungloved hands stretched out in greeting. The un- 
clouded sun that streamed full on them all, turned the 
blond curls on her neck to gold. Her eyes smiled 
shining in the transparent shadow of her straw hat ; 
her young red mouth smiled too, not dreamily now, 
but full of a happiness too eager and too innocent for 
self-observant restraint. 

For a moment she stood so, and then drawn by 
an irresistible magnetism and scarcely conscious of 
what he did or of who saw him, Swift stepped for- 
ward and took her hands. He wondered, as he loosed 
them, with a shock of dismay, how long he had been 
standing there with her hands in his and his eyes smil- 
ing down into hers. But it was not a noticeable frac- 
tion of time to any but those two. Lord Mordaunt, 
still very excusably sulky, ostentatiously ignoring the 
other occupants of the coach, bowed to Molly with 
an air of ownership, and leaned on his cane till 
it should be her turn to descend, wondering mean- 
time where the hectoring beggar of a parson had 
picked up his fine bow. For he had an undeni- 
ably fine bow, and when it so pleased him, fine 
manners too, which were all the more attractive be- 
cause his courtesy was apt to have a vein of satire 
beneath it, and his rudeness to be the veil of some 
refined kindness. He stood bareheaded at the steps, 
handing down the impetuous Mrs. Vanhomrigh, 
who was talking too fast to be answered, and jumped 
out so precipitately that her petticoat hitched on the 
step and she would have fallen, had he not caught 
her with one hand and dexterously disentangled it 
with the other. 

“I'm obliged to you, Doctor,” she cried. “Ginckel 
couldn’t have done it cleverer. There’s a com- 
pliment for you ! ” She smiled at him slily, aware 
in spite of her maternal feelings, that Ginckel held 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


27 

no particular place in the Doctor’s esteem. So 
long as Esther did, what matter? 

“Well, yes, Madam Van — from his mother,” 
replied the Doctor drily, and glanced at Ginckel, 
who having brushed off the dust of the journey and 
combed his flaxen peruke with a pocket-comb before 
entering the town, now stood ecstatically conscious 
of his irreproachable clothes and of several fashionable 
ladies looking in the direction of the party. 

At this juncture Erasmus Lewis arrived to the relief 
of Mrs. Vanhomrigh, who had begun to fear that the 
Doctor would be forced to devote too much attention 
to herself to be as assiduous to Essie as she could wish. 
She flung herself on Mr. Lewis, and the secretary, 
conscious of a worthy spouse in London whose 
existence preserved him from all entanglements, 
mightily enjoyed the attentions of the graceful and 
lively widow. 

So the procession moved on to the entrance of the 
Castle, whose beauties and treasures their two priv- 
ileged entertainers, Dr. Swift and Mr. Lewis, were 
to show them. 

“Miss,” said Lord Mordaunt in a low voice, leaning 
over Molly and pressing the arm which lightly, as 
for form’s sake, was locked in his, “ you’ll be 
most infernally tired if you visit this Castle — a 
Gothic dungeon fitter for mice than men. Come, now, 
why shouldn’t we sneak off and divert ourselves in the 
park, and let ’em find us when they’ve done ? ” 

As he spoke his long brown eyes and thin but 
well-curved lips smiled with an appealing almost 
pathetic sweetness. This smile of his was not his 
personal property; it was a family heirloom, like the 
Peterborough pearls, only it came from the mater- 
nal side, and it had quite as little relation to his 
inner man as the jewel on his finger. Molly did 
not know that; she could not help returning his 
look with eloquent bright eyes and rose-red blush, 
and hesitating to articulate a cruel denial. Esther, 
however, did not hesitate. Even the absorbing interest 
of Swift’s society, and the nervous dread lest he 
should find her conversation tedious or insufficient, 


28 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


which always beset her on meeting him after an 
absence, could not overpower her anxiety on her 
sister’s account. At the moment Lord Mordaunt 
spoke her own cavalier happened to be in consultation 
with Mr. Lewis, and she turned round sharply on 
the youth with a frosty smile. 

“You bear a conscience, indeed, my Lord,” she 
said. “ Here are we poor females at the expense of 
coach-hire to see Windsor Castle, and never a word 
of warning you give us till we stand at the gate, 
when you tell us there’s nothing to see.” 

“’Pon honour, ladies, I did not understand the 
Castle was your object,” returned his Lordship, with 
a certain insolence in his manner of meeting her gaze 
which increased Esther’s dislike to him. 

“Come, Molly,” she said, “we will not be fright- 
ened out of seeing it now we’re here.” 

“Oh, pray, Miss Vanhomrigh, see it ten times 
over, if so please you, ” he answered coldly, throwing 
the lace ends of his Steinkirk over his shoulder. 
“But, ’twould be a sin to wear out Miss Molly’s 
charming little feet on such a pilgrimage. ” 

“ ’Tis to the shrine of Loyalty, my Lord,” re- 
turned Molly, passing through the entrance in obe- 
dience to her sister’s wishes and her own sense 
of decorum, but casting back such a look of re- 
gret and apology as must have softened the most 
justly irritated lover. Lord Mordaunt, however, was 
not a lover. 

“Your servant, ladies,” he said, taking off his hat. 
“Vanhomrigh, you have seen this confounded rat- 
hole fifty times. Let’s take a stroll in the town.” 

Ginckel willingly made his bow to his cousin Anna, 
and the two young men went off together. It was 
then observed that Francis Earle was not of the party. 

He had by this time reached Mr. Wilson’s red- 
brick house, and was sounding a brave rat-tat on the 
mahogany door. The lawyer was an old gentleman, 
and having transacted a good deal of business be- 
tween his eight o’clock dish of tea and his break- 
fast, he was now resting and would not have disturbed 
himself for fifty Mr. Earles. Francis waited in the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


2 9 

bare room, where two elderly and unconversational 
clerks sat at their desks. The windows looked into 
the dingy foliage of a shrubbery, and the only 
object of interest was a large map of North America 
hanging on the walls, with the British and French 
forts and plantations accurately marked. One of the 
clerks told him it had been given to their master by 
his client, the Earl of Peterborough, who had an 
interest in the plantations. For a long dull time 
he waited. A special courier arrived and was shown 
in to Mr. Wilson before him. The Dutch clock ticked 
on and on ; the cogency of the arguments he had 
prepared to support his appeal seemed evaporating at 
every tick, like some volatile essence exposed to the 
air. 

When at last he had entered Mr. Wilson’s hand- 
some library, had seated himself near the leather arm- 
chair that contained the old man, and been subjected 
for a few minutes to a short dry cough and drier ques- 
tions, the process of evaporation was complete. The 
effect of this sense of defeat upon Francis was only 
to rouse his temper and his obstinacy. Had Mr. 
Wilson been in his shrewder prime, he might have 
lent a more sympathetic ear to the young man’s 
demands, as recognizing, not their reasonableness, 
but the signs of uncommon parts in him who pre- 
ferred them. As it was, he looked with a passing 
curiosity at this youth with the small alert figure, the 
thin face at once mobile and determined, and hawk- 
like glance. He was struck by a likeness, less in 
feature than in general air, in tricks of manner and 
expression, to a distinguished person of his acquaint- 
ance. But there was nothing surprising in that. 
Presently such superficial curiosity vanished in the 
consciousness that he was engaged with a self-willed, 
disagreeable fellow : a fellow with the most amaz- 
ing notion of his claim to have what he wanted in 
life, instead of being thankful for what he could get ; 
who, last but not least in the catalogue of his 
offences, seemed to think that he could oblige him, 
Benjamin Wilson, to take trouble, and to trouble that 
distinguished person his anonymous client. Mr. Wil- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


son stated clearly that he was paid, not to importune 
his client, but to save him from importunities of this 
nature ; in Mr. Earle’s own interest he had not com- 
municated and should not communicate to that 
gentleman the peevish and ungrateful remonstrances 
of his dependent. So, pale with suppressed rage, 
the young man made his bow, and a sober-suited 
serving-man closed the big mahogany door behind 
him. 

The little cloisters at Windsor are, as every one 
knows, very little indeed. There are to be found no 
length of groined roof, no carven-arches opening on 
the green turf of College quadrangle or Cathedral 
close. The ancient lodgings of the Prebendaries 
surround a small oblong court, their projecting 
upper stories rest on timber supports, and below 
these on a rough-cast wall ; a similar gangway 
with timber supports on each side, runs across the 
court. The low irregular doors that open on to the 
flagged path seem of all ages and sorts ; here the 
modern paint or varnish, there the Tudor oak clamped 
with iron, or the gracefully wrought knocker of the 
later Stuarts. The houses too bear within the mark 
of every generation. Yet the sunshine travelling 
round the court summer after summer for the last 
hundred and eighty years finds little altered there, 
as it throws sharp shadows on the gabled roof, and 
gilds the rough-cast walls, and darkens the shade with- 
in the cloister, just catching the jewelled gleam of 
some trailing nasturtium or Virginia creeper that 
overflows into the light from its box on the ledge of 
the cloister wall. Whether any one of the sixteen 
Prebendaries who owned these lodgings in the reign 
of Queen Anne kept a flower-box opposite his door, 
is doubtful, but it is certain that the path to it was no 
wider then than now, and therefore that Mrs. Stone 
and her hoop-petticoat must have had some difficulty 
in manoeuvring as far as Dr. Swift’s house. Even 
slight Mrs. Vanhomrigh presented a somewhat 
squeezed appearance, as she stood with her flowered- 
silk mantua billowing unevenly about her, the dust 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


3 * 

of a dungeon into which she had been the first to 
descend, and which she had pronounced “ vastly 
diverting/' still visible on her smart French hood. 
Esther and Molly, belonging to that numerous body 
of ladies whom Mr. Spectator had led to resist hoops 
and content themselves with full petticoats, were 
not inconvenienced by the narrowness of their 
quarters. The five ladies were now leaving the 
cloisters in company with Doctor Swift, who carried 
a basket covered with a white cloth. 

“ ’Tis no manner of use, Doctor/’ cried Mrs. Van- 
homrigh, shaking her fan at him. “ The provender 
is waiting for us at the Park gates, and you that pre- 
tend to hate waste, stand wasting good time which 
you know they say’s money.” 

“Wasting money ! Ay, those be the words to fling 
in my face, Madam Van ! ” replied Swift pettishly ; 
“because I am a good prudent manager you must 
needs treat me as a curmudgeon that will not spare 
his friends a dinner.” 

“There are dinners and dinners,” murmured Molly, 
making a little grimace, “and for my part, I would 
rather have one of Essie’s providing than of his.” 

Esther frowned upon her pertness. 

“ Sure, Doctor,” cried Madam Van, rather fright- 
ened, “it’s nothing of the sort I’m meaning. But 
’twould be monstrous to trouble a poor bachelor like 
you to provide food for us eight hungry mortals on 
a jaunt, that will eat like eighteen.” 

“ Well, well, if you will not peck, you shall at any 
rate booze at my expense,” said he ; and held up 
his basket with an air of triumphant hospitality not 
fully justified by its size or contents, which consisted 
of two rather small bottles of French wine. Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh, conscious of a store in her own basket 
better fitted to satisfy the wants of her son and Lord 
Mordaunt, expressed her thanks with effusion. 

“And pray, Miss Essie,” asked Swift gravely, 
waiting at the cloister-entrance as the ladies squeezed 
out, “ what do you reckon that I should have lost by 
you all, had Madam Van condescended to accept of 
my dinner ? I don’t ask her , for ’tis my belief the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH . 


32 

agreeable wretch knows no more about money than 
that silver is cleaner than copper and gold prettier 
than silver ! ” 

“Lord, Doctor, why should I trouble to know, 
while I have Esther to manage for me ? ” said Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh gaily, more than contented to suffer 
any condemnation that involved praise of her daugh- 
ter, especially from his lips, and quite unaware that 
to manage for her was an impossible task. Esther 
smiled teasingly. 

“ If you ask, sir, with the intention of offering us 
half-a-crown apiece, the question is useless,” — had 
she not known him attempt such a benefaction ? — 
“ few of us would like to take it, and nobody would 
dare. ” 

“Half-a-crown?” repeated Swift, quite startled. 
“My dear Hess, could I not give my friends a simple 
dinner for less than that? Wine, mind you, is pro- 
vided.” And he again held up his basket. 

Esther looked down and blushed for him, and then 
looked up and began courageously : “You could, no 

doubt, if you chose to be ” and there her courage 

failed. 

“ Parsimonious ! ” said he, sharply finishing her 
sentence. “You need not speak the word. I have 
heard it before. But I did not expect it from you.” 

“ ’Twas yourself, not I, that said -it,” she replied. 

They walked on together, both silent, and Swift 
moody. When they had passed through the pictur- 
esque gateway into the Horseshoe Cloisters, he 
stepped aside to the west door of St. George’s Chapel, 
near which was chained a venerable poor-box. Then 
he turned — a tall, black-robed figure against the gray 
background of the Chapel wall — and faced the ladies 
with a look half-serious, half-mocking, and wholly 
bitter, on his countenance. 

“Madams all,” he said, holding up a coin to the 
sun, “I take you to witness that I refuse to make 
anything by Madam Van’s greediness and extrava- 
gance, which prompted her to bring her own dinner. 
I would divide the money between her daughters, 
but the hussies are too proud to take it ; so here goes 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


33 

a pound to the poor of the parish, and many a good 
dinner may it buy ! ” And they heard the gold drop 
in among the few and humble coins already in the 
box. 

Mrs. Stone was staring, fanning herself slowly and 
mechanically with a half-closed fan ; she had not 
exactly taken in the sense of the little scene, but it 
deepened her general impression that for a doctor of 
divinity and one living in the shadow of a prebend, 
if not actually a prebendary, Dr. Swift was repre- 
hensibly unusual. Anna had come prepared to make 
small jokes on Esthers elderly gallant, and though 
up to this moment she had been overawed by his 
appearance and manner, she now put her handker- 
chief to her mouth and giggled to her heart’s con- 
tent. Even Molly’s smile was not quite good-natured, 
for seeing how remorselessly Esther marked the 
flaws in her sister’s idol, she could not expect her own, 
however respected, to pass uncriticised. It must be 
owned that the flourish with which the Doctor parted 
with his pound showed it to be rather dearer to him 
than it should have been. Essie did not look at his 
action so closely, but accepted it as completely 
atoning for anything that might have displeased in 
his former conduct. As they walked side by side to 
the Castle gate, he said in a low voice : 

“It cuts me to the heart, Miss Essie, that you 
should call me parsimonious.” 

“I did not, I did not,” she whispered vehemently. 
He continued : 

“To be neither liked nor understood by the 
greater part of mankind is the lot of every man of 
sense, and I trust I can take my share of ill words 
without whining. But I own when one I have 
supposed my friend, even though ’tis but such a brat 
as you, repeats the dull censure of the crowd, I feel 
it beyond reason ; for sure ’tis not in reason to expect 
to find a perfectly true friend more than once in a 
lifetime.” 

He paused, and thought, which “puts a girdle 
round the earth in fifty seconds,” brought before him 
another and a lovelier Esther. Alas ! poor Essie ! 
3 


34 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


She had better cause than she knew to turn upon 
him that silent, reproachful look. 

‘ ‘ So help me, child, ” he went on. “You know the 
thing I save by my parsimony, though I write it in 
pounds, shillings, and pence, is in truth my inde- 
pendence. I love money ? Yes, I love it as much 
now, as when I sent back the Lord Treasurer’s 
thousand pounds, though he owed me a million. 
’Twas more than Steele or Peterborough or Boling- 
broke, ay or Addison, would have done. To what 
do I owe it that I am the friend of Ministers, and 
not their slave ? To my parsimony, young woman — 
and if I have enough to spare for folk less fortunate 
than myself, ’tis again because I am parsimonious — 
or called so, by them that squander so much food 
and drink on the well-fed that they have none left 
for the starving.” 

“ But I know all that, sir,” she said in a low voice. 
“Why do you defend yourself? It is not needed. 

I fancy I understand you very well, and I am sure 
I know what I owe you. Ah ! Don’t you remember 
how different I used to be, when you first came to 
London ? ’Twas you that taught me to seek order 
and cleanliness before fineness, and to count it dis- 
honest to spend more than I had got. It is hard, very 
hard sometimes ” — and she caught a little sigh and 
stopped it half way— “but I always try to do what 
you would think right.” 

“ You are a good child, Hess, ” he said gently. “If 
you were not, you might say what you liked of me. 
And you have a good head on your shoulders too. 
As to that poor dear creature, your mother, if she 
will not be guided by you, I sometimes fear she will 
end in no better company than the bailiffs.” 

“Poor mamma ! She at any rate is no example of 
your saying that a spendthrift is first cousin to a 

miser. She is all generosity. But there are others 

Ah ! if our blood were gold, he would suck it.” 

“The Colonel ?” returned Swift drily. “Yes. 
Nature was a fool to let such as him wear the 
breeches. Not that ho is worse than other young 
men of fashion ; but the difference is, he need not 


ESTHER VANH0MR1GH. 


35 

have been one. Bah ! what a generation it is 1 Do 
you think him worse than his friends ? ” 

“ No,” she answered shortly, and for a few moments 
walked on, frowning straight in front of her with her 
Chinese fan pressed hard against her red under-lip, 
and biting the top of it with her strong white teeth. 
Then — “ I sometimes think I hate men ! ” she cried. 

There was no accent of coquetry in the words ; 
they sounded bitterly sincere. Yet they were no 
sooner spoken than with a sudden charming change 
of countenance she turned to Swift. “But I don't 
really,” she said. He met her smile with that incom- 
parably arch glance of his blue eyes which sufficed 
to bring even strangers under his spell. 

“ Then we agree, as an Irishman would say, for 
I sometimes think I hate women. The truth is that 
once on a time I loved 'em well enough, if only they 
were fine and witty and kind ; but now I can take 
tea with half a dozen of the finest drabs of quality in 
London to wait on me and be so dull all the while 
I wish myself anywhere else. Lord ! I have even 
said to myself,” and he made a wry mouth, “ I would 
almost rather be drinking ratsbane in the Sluttery 
and hear Governor Huff scold, scold, scold, all the 
time. ” 

Essie laughed a little laugh full of the music of love 
and happiness. They were now in the street of the 
town nearing the Park gate, where the provisions 
and the young men were to meet them, and at that 
moment Francis Earle joined their party. Esther’s 
laugh jarred upon him. 

The Colonel, Erasmus Lewis and Lord Mordaunt, 
and Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s man carrying her basket, were 
waiting for them at the gate, and the party moved on 
through the chequered shadows of the Long Walk at 
first in a compact body, but gradually straggling into 
groups. Dr. Swift being a fast walker, he and Esther 
were soon a little in front of the others, while an acci- 
dent to Molly’s shoe-ribbon made an excuse for Lord. 
Mordaunt to loiter behind and offer to tie it for her, 
which he did not, however, do. But while she was 
tying it, he was graciously pleased to observe that 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


36 

thenceforward he should not think quite so meanly 
of the leather shoes the ladies had taken to wearing, 
since on some feet even those looked genteel. Molly 
expressed an opinion in favour of them for country 
walking, but his Lordship declared that though for 
men who could hunt and shoot and drink, the country 
might be tolerable, he never could imagine what 
could take an elegant female there. 

“Why, Philomel! Romantic shades! Purling 
brooks ! to be sure,” laughed Molly, shrugging her 
shoulders ; and then they both laughed together at 
the absurd notion of enjoying the beauties of nature. 

“ You miss out the most important item, dear 
miss,” said Lord Mordaunt. “ Sighing swains are to 
be found there, the poets assure us.” 

“ Tis the yawns that break into sighs, and the poets 
poor things, mistake ’em,” returned she. 

“ No, no ! I feel the rural fit is on me,” and he heaved 
a gentle sigh or two. “Tell me, Miss Molly, when 
’tis on you, for I have heard say the shepherd nymph 
is kinder to her Corydon than you belles of the town 
are to us poor fellows.” 

He cast a languid glance at the figure beside him, 
so fresh and neat in the blue damask dress and 
white neckerchief, and at the soft young face, which, 
however, quickly drooped beneath his eyes, and left 
him nothing but the top of a Leghorn hat to contem- 
plate. So they paced on side by side beneath the 
elms, to all appearance a well-matched boy and girl 
couple pursuing the same harmless happiness, but 
in their real thoughts and feeling as immeasurably 
divergent from each other as the innocent must be 
from the wicked. 

Meantime Mrs. Stone was prosing on about her 
sons, the prosperity of Edward and the genius of 
George, not caring much whether any one answered 
her or not, and between the answers which polite- 
ness now and then dictated, Mrs. Vanhomrigh passed 
silently through a number of exciting and delightful 
experiences. First she had to choose the preferment 
that would be most suitable to Dr. Swift, and having 
secured, as the first step, the Deanery of Windsor, she 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


37 

passed on to arrange the more delicate affair of Molly's 
marriage. Lord Peterborough would of course be 
averse to the match at first, but the intercession of 
his admired friend and her own son-in-law, Dr. Swift, 
and the prayers and tears of his last remaining son 
would at length melt his paternal heart ; he would 
consent to see her Molly, and own the young lady’s 
charms made full amends for her inequality of birth 
and fortune. By this time Mrs. Stone’s conversation 
had moved on from her sons to her daughters, or 
rather to the daughter about to be married. 

“ We ha’n’t made up our minds if ’tis to be in St. 
Martin’s or in St. Paul’s, Covent Garden,” she was 
saying. 

“Well, St. Martin's fora single wedding, say I,” 
replied Mrs. Vanhomrigh briskly. “But if the two 
sisters was to be married the same day, why, St. 
Paul’s is the roomier.” 

“The same day!” repeated Mrs. Stone in slow 
astonishment. “We’ve had luck enough I’m sure 
in getting Mr. Harris, that’s a good match for any 
young woman, though with a fortin of her own, 
without marrying 'em both off the same day.” 

“You're right, Sukey,” returned Madam Van, half 
listening, half reflecting with genuine regret on her 
own future deserted condition. “’Twould be a sad 
thing for a mother to lose both her daughters at 
once, and might cause a mortification to the elder, 
if her younger sister should have a bridegroom greatly 
superior in rank to her own — for of course he must 
take the pas” 

This was a new and anxious question, and brought 
a wrinkle to the widow's smooth brow. 

“I wish I could think as well of Anna’s chances as 
you do, Esther,” replied Mrs. Stone in a burst of un- 
wonted confidence. “ But I sometimes say to Stone 
the men can't be so blind as not to see her temper in 
the corners of her mouth ; ” then recollecting herself, 
“not that there's cause to be anxious about the girl. 
She's got her health, and what with that and her 
pious bringing-up and her little fortin and all, we 
may be sure, as Mr. Stone says, the Lord will pro- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


38 

vide. Yet I can’t think she’ll go off better than Sarah, 
or be married the same day.” 

“As to the same day,” rejoined Mrs. Vanhomrigh, 
“you are certainly right. ’Twould be more con- 
venient to have a twelvemonth, say, between ’em. 
For ’twould be but sense in buying their clothes to 
consider the different rank of the bridegrooms ; and 
yet ’tis a difficult matter for a mother not to treat both 
her dear girls the same. ’Tis true the money might 
be made up in household stuff and furniture.” 

“’Tis a terrible costly matter to marry a daughter,” 
said Mrs. Stone, shaking her head gloomily. “Even 
Mr. Stone and me that have been sober saving people 
all our lives, and, thank the Lord, not poorer than 
most, can scarcely bear the expense. As to clothes, 
Sarah is inclined to be tasty, but I tell her ’twould 
be most unbecoming in a clergyman’s wife to be 
dressed up modish.” 

“Oh, an ordinary clergyman’s wife, I grant you,” 
broke in Mrs. Vanhomrigh. “’Tis a different mat- 
ter with the wife of a Dean or Bishop. She should 
be quietly but handsomely dressed — grey lute-string 
say, branched with silver.” 

‘ ‘ ’Tis true Mr. Harris is like to rise in the Church,” re- 
plied Mrs. Stone complacently. ‘ ‘ Sarah would be glad 
to have a talk with you, sister, about dresses and man- 
tua-makers, in case you could recommend a reason- 
able one. For my part I think myself too old to 
value such vanities ; but the child already begins to 
trouble about ’em, and bade me not forget to ask 
Molly for the pattern of the new Macklin commode 
she was wearing o’ Tuesday.” 

The subject of lace commodes and mantua-makers 
was one of irresistible interest to Mrs. Vanhomrigh, 
and so at this point the two ladies’ divergent streams 
of thought met and flowed in the same channel. 

Mr. Lewis had been walking with Anna Stone, and 
the remarks of that gossip-loving young lady seemed 
to have caused him some uneasiness. Drifting from 
her side he took young Earle’s arm and wqlked on 
with him in silence for a bit. Then after clearing 
his throat nervously once or twice — 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


39 

“Mr. Earle,” he said, “if Colonel Vanhomrigh 
can be trusted to act with secrecy and discretion, 
there is a confidential subject on which I would will- 
ingly offer him advice.” 

“Han’t I seen a parrot and a weathercock at your 
lodgings in town, sir ?” returned Francis, who was 
in no very amiable mood/ “Your confidence and 
your advice would be a deal better bestowed on them 
than on the Colonel.” 

This expression of opinion was offensive to Mr. 
Lewis’s cautious mind ; he muttered something dep- 
recatory about his young friend, Vanhomrigh, and 
cleared his throat several times before resuming. 
However, in the course of a long if not intimate ac- 
quaintance he had had reason to think well of Francis 
Earle’s judgment, and he knew him to be practically 
a member of the Vanhomrigh family; so he made up 
his mind to go on. 

“It being admitted that the Colonel’s discretion 
is not wholly to be depended upon, I turn to you, sir, 
as having influence with these ladies ? ” 

“Influence? I? Not a penn’orth, sir,” replied 
Francis ; and in a less biting tone — “But lam cer- 
tainly bound to be very much at their service.” 

“I imagined you not ungrateful, young man,” 
said Mr. Lewis, “ and Mrs. Vanhomrigh told me 
that you have influence with the person most con- 
cerned.” He cleared his throat again. “I think 
you must know that Miss Esther Vanhomrigh’s name 
is beginning to be mentioned in connection with that 
of my friend, Dr. Swift ? ” 

The idea suggested was not exactly new to Francis, 
but it gave him a new prick of annoyance thus 
brought to him from without. His cold answer, how- 
ever, betrayed nothing of his sensations. 

“In that case,” he said, “ I hope soon to hear that 
Dr. Swift has made proposals in form.” 

“Ah, my young friend,” almost whispered the 
lawyer, pressing his arm and speaking into his ear, 

“ that is just what is so very unlikely to happen.” 

“May I ask why, sir ? ” returned Francis haughtily. 
“Has not Miss Vanhomrigh enough wit, beauty and 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGH. 


40 

fortune to satisfy a parson on his promotion— one 
that’s no chicken either?” 

“No doubt, no doubt, my dear sir ; there’s no fault 
to find with Miss Esther. The obstacle is quite dif- 
ferent. ” 

“What is it then ? ” asked Francis. 

“ Another woman, Mr. Earle.” 

“Oh, that’s it, is it,” said Francis, and uttering a 
malediction on the Doctor, he stood still. He had 
uttered it without raising or much altering his voice, 
but Mr. Lewis flushed with nervousness and vexa- 
tion. 

“Hush! young man, hush! Such language is 
most unbecoming.” 

“My language becomes his conduct, if it don’t 
his cloth.” 

“Pray do not imagine I hint at any unbecoming 
conduct,” Mr. Lewis hastened to say. “But I hap- 
pen to be acquainted with a young woman named 
Johnson, who was brought up at Sir William Tem- 
ple’s. My friend Swift was secretary there, when 
she was a little child, and took a fancy to her. She 
afterwards invested the little money Sir William left 
her in Ireland, and went herself to reside there, when 
Dr. Swift was secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant. 
’Twas a strange step for a young woman to take, to 
be sure, but she hath always with her a respectable 
widow as companion, and I never heard aught 
against her character, except that she had a mind to 
be Mrs. Swift. In Ireland they have thought these 
five years that he would marry her, were it not for 
their lack of fortune. I have known Mrs. Johnson 
for years, and she is as beautiful and agreeable a 
young woman as ever I saw. Sure he would have 
done more prudently and honourably to marry her 
without waiting for preferment. But remember, sir, 
this in confidence,” he added, glancing uneasily at the 
not very distant figure of Swift. “My friend has 
never spoken of Mrs. Johnson to me as of a lady to 
whom he was in any way contracted, but on the con- 
trary as an intimate friend and a kind of' ward of his.” 

Francis was silent for a little ; then he said, “You 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


41 

may trust me, Mr. Lewis, not to chatter about your 
friend’s or any one else’s affairs, but what use I am to 
make of your information I know not. Tis plain, 
I cannot tell Miss Vanhomrigh he is contracted 
to another. Besides,” he added coldly, “is it not an 
impertinence on our part to imply that the matter is 
of moment to her ? ” 

Mr. Lewis shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

“ Pray, my dear Mr. Earle, don’t let us talk non- 
sense,” he answered. 

“ Besides it would do no good for an insignificant 
creature like myself to tell Miss Vanhomrigh any- 
thing to Dr. Swift’s disadvantage,” continued Francis. 

“To his disadvantage!” exclaimed Mr. Lewis, 
shocked. “Certainly not. There is nothing to be 
told. Never was a man more careful of his repu- 
tation. Only as a friend to both ladies I in short 

think it better Miss Vanhomrigh should know of the 
other’s existence. ” 

“Then pray sir, tell her yourself. I am not the 
man to do it, for,” Francis cried with a sudden burst 
of frankness to himself and to the lawyer, “for I 
hate Swift.” 

Mr. Lewis had just time to hold up his hand in 
silent reprobation before Ginckel and Anna joined 
them. The party now gradually fell together, and 
coming to a wide grassy space they spread their cloth 
at the edge of it. 

The turf was still somewhat yellow from the August 
drought. It had been nibbled short by a herd of 
deer, that were now grazing on the other side of the 
wide space, under a group of Scotch firs, whose stems 
and the grazing herd beneath them, showed in patches 
of tawny red where the sunshine caught them through 
the scattered shade of the branches. Behind the 
improvised table of the party, and on either side of 
them, the forest stood away, still dark with the leaf- 
age of late summer, but from time to time there was 
heard among the branches a long low breath, thesigji 
of the coming autumn, and a flight of yellow leaves 
drifted slowly to the ground. 

It was a merry dinner party. Swift was in his 


42 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


happiest mood, witty, kind and courteous to all the 
world, the Vanhomrighs in high spirits, and every 
one in good temper except Francis Earle, whom 
nobody minded. Madam Van, as having in her the 
strongest Irish vein, was the most amusing and also 
the noisiest of her family. When it came to her chal- 
lenging the company round to sing “ Hopped she ” 
against her, and several had attempted it and ridicu- 
lously failed, Lord Mordaunt thought it time to go. 
In singing this ancient song the prize is awarded to 
the person who can longest continue the chorus — 

“ Once so merrily hopped she, 

Twice so merrily hopped she.” 

taking a sip from his glass between each line, with- 
out being guilty of a falling-off in tune or in time, 
which is beaten by an impartial person. His Lord- 
ship, who was somewhat silent and habitually re- 
served in general society, would not for worlds have 
played the fool to it ; a part which indeed it takes 
much native gaiety and spontaneity to play with 
grace. He looked at his watch, and rising, remarked 
to Ginckel that it was nigh on three o’clock and time 
for them to be starting. It had been arranged that he 
and Ginckel should drive on to his house to make 
preparation for the ladies, who were to follow by 
boat, for Mrs. Vanhomrigh had quite made up her 
mind that a water-party must not be omitted from 
the day’s pleasuring. Their coach with an escort was 
to call for them at Lord Mordaunt’s and take them 
back to town. The two young men walked off, arm 
in arm, and the rest proceeded to help pack up the 
dinner ; a proceeding only interrupted by a lively 
passage of arms between Swift and Madam Van, 
who would willingly have left the site of their encamp- 
ment marked by the half-devoured carcases of fowls, 
several pieces of bread and the wreck of a pasty. 
Swift having vainly pressed her to collect these 
remains, at length did so himself, and making a parcel 
of them — 

“This will be a good meal for Patrick and Mrs. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 43 

Brent and myself, ” he said gravely ; “ and afterwards 
a rare basketful for the poor soul that comes for the 
broken meat. Ay, ay, you may laugh, M6dam Van, 
but you are a proud, extravagant hussy, and will come 
to a bad end. And so will Moll there, that laughs 
too because I speak wisely. ” 


CHAPTER III. 

Before they reached the river the sun was low enough 
to be veiled by the autumnal haze. It was one of 
those pearl-gray afternoons which perhaps best 
become the pastoral beauty of the winding Thames, 
though “ lovely all times it lies.” They were rather 
too many to be taken by one waterman, and Francis 
earnestly entreated Esther to come with him in a 
smaller boat. Swift was to go part of the way with 
them and to be put out on the bank at a place from 
which there was a convenient field-path back to Wind- 
sor. It was therefore with an effort that she consented 
to go with Francis, but she knew his face too well 
not to notice that it was unusually pale and worn, 
and she felt a little pang of something like remorse 
as she realized how absent he, and indeed all the 
others whom she was accustomed to consider, had 
been from her thoughts during the past few hours of 
Paradise. 

Rowing was not then, as now, a fashionable exer- 
cise ; indeed exercise in general was not fashionable, 
and Ginckel would have both smiled and shuddered 
at the notion of handling the oars with his slim white 
fingers. But Francis Earle’s restless energy was 
physical as well as mental, and at Oxford the excuse 
of fishing had taken him many a long row on the 
Upper Thames. 

The large boat was the first to start, moving slowly 
to the regular stroke of a single waterman. As Francis 
was pulling after them Esther leaned back over the 
stern to look again on Windsor, the bridge, the steep 
red-roofed town clinging round the foot of the rock, 


44 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGII. 


the great Castle itself rising over all ; here Caesar's 
tower, like some mightier bastion of the grey and 
naked cliff from which it sprang, there high embattled 
walls, their bases hidden in deep-foliaged elms, and 
higher still a confused mass of gabled roofs and clus- 
tering pinnacles piled dark against the sky. In the 
face of that huge wall her eyes sought vainly the little 
window of the Prebendary's lodging where she had 
stood not many hours ago looking down on the 
river. The laden craft in front, containing the rest 
of the party, moved on, floating like a bouquet of 
bright flowers on the pale and tranquil surface of the 
water. She could see Swift there, his hand over the 
side, watching sometimes the clear water bubble be- 
tween his fingers and sometimes the advance of the 
smaller boat. Madam Van and Molly began to sing, 
first humming low, as they tried to remember the 
music, and then their sopranos breaking out clear 
and sweet int© “ Chloris in native purple bright ." 

As Francis gained upon the waterman, they called 
to Esther to take a second, and she joined them with 
her low mezzo , small in compass but full in tone. 
Francis did not, however, slacken his stroke when the 
boats drew together, and was soon leading the way. 
Essie left off singing and complained that they had 
left the other boat too far behind. 

“'Tis the fault of my rowing, I know," he replied 
gravely, continuing as before. “Just so — so it goes. 
I cannot mend it." 

“ Perversity ! ” she cried, her head turned in the 
opposite direction. “ If I wished to go faster, there 
would be some sense in your answer." 

“ Ah ! you do not like a civil excuse," he returned, 
putting a little more force into his strokes ; “ then I 
must try an uncivil one — as this. Pray, young wo- 
man, what honour or pleasure is there in rowing the 
second in a duet? You might as well expect me to 
be gratified at taking the big drum and the double 
bass on board my wherry, while the rest of the Lord 
Mayors orchestra were playing away on his Lord- 
ship’s barge." 

“Sure, then, you had better have Molly. She will 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


45 

be pleased to come/’ said Esther with alacrity. “If 
she’s too timid to change places on the water, we 
can easily put into the bank there.” 

Francis laughed silently, not seeming to enjoy his 
own mirth. “I did not say that it was the truth,” 
he returned, “I only said ’twas an uncivil excuse, 
and so it is.” 

Esther, still leaning and looking back with her chin 
on her hand, shrugged her shoulder. 

“You’re an odd, tiresome fellow,” she observed; 
and then there fell a silence. 

“Yes, that is all I am,” he answered at last, with- 
out looking up, “an odd, tiresome fellow. Tis time 
I was told so, is’t not, Hess? ” 

She turned and looked at him in silence. 

“What is the matter, Frank?” she asked. 

Then he told her. He was not lavish of words or 
sentiments but he made his meaning clear to her, at 
least as far as it was clear to himself. His long and 
complete reserve on the subject had given a certain 
morbid strength to the ambitions and discontents 
which he at length expressed, and besides these, he 
owned he was tormented by a keen curiosity, to dis- 
cover the carefully-guarded secret of his parentage, 
though aware that the discovery was unlikely to be 
of use to him. In implying an accusation of Esther’s 
indifference to his feelings during the past year, he 
seemed to her exceedingly unjust, since he had never 
expressed them to her. But sympathy is not the con- 
sequence of confidences, it is the magnet which at- 
tracts them. The truth was that for some time one 
powerful and increasing influence had been sensibly 
changing the orbit of Esther’s life, and of this Francis 
was better aware than herself. But circumstances 
and character had given her the feelings and respon- 
sibilities of the mother rather than the daughter of the 
Vanhomrigh family, and whatever the future destruc- 
tive force of passion, it could not as yet undo the 
habit of years. So it seemed very natural to both 
her and Francis to be floating together on the quiet 
water among the wide evening fields, and that he 
should have for the moment all her attention and 


46 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


all her sympathy. Counsel there was none to give, 
except a counsel of patience, which was of course 
received with contemptuous impatience. Their con- 
versation on the subject did not last long, being car- 
ried on in that kind of oral shorthand in use among 
intimate but reserved friends who neither care nor 
require to give full expression to their feelings. Then 
they fell silent, each pursuing a separate and engross- 
ing train of thought, but Francis continuing to row 
with all his might. 

“ Pray now,” she said, “what is the meaning of 
this ridiculous haste ? We are Lord knows how far 
ahead already. The Doctor is to be landed before 
we reach Lord Mordaunt’s, and ’twould scarcely be 
civil to let him go without saying farewell.” 

“We will drift presently,” he replied, “ and wait 
the other waterman’s good pleasure.” 

So after some dozen more vigorous strokes, he 
turned toward the bank, shipped the oars, and stood 
on the seat to put aside the long drooping branches 
of an unpollarded willow, allowing the boat to 
glide in under them. When his face was out of sight 
behind a veil of greenery, some perfectly aimless 
impulse prompted him to ask : 

“ Hess, do you know one Mrs. Esther Johnson ? ” 

“I have heard the name,” she answered care- 
lessly, “ but I scarce know how.” 

“ She is so old and close a friend of Dr. Swift’s, I 
supposed you must be acquainted,” returned he, 
taking his coat up from the bottom of the boat and 
putting it on with as unconcerned an air as he was 
able. 

Esther gave an exclamation of annoyance quite 
unconnected with Mrs. Johnson. One of the oars 
must have been insecurely shipped, and then caught 
by a rebounding branch of willow, for it had gone 
overboard, and was already out of reach. Francis 
punted after it as well as he could with the re- 
maining oar, as it floated at a pace which ought 
to have made him consider, down a backwater of 
the river. But he was an inexpert punter, and the 
water deep, and though several times they came 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


47 


near enough to the truant oar to induce him and 
Esther alternately to almost upset the boat in their 
ineffectual struggles to gain possession of it; it still 
eluded their grasp. 

“ Stop, pray, stop ! ” cried Esther suddenly, “ we 
are going down a weir.” 

A turn of the stream had brought them close in 
sight of a ruined mill and a broken-down weir, which 
had been concealed from them so far by the trees on 
the banks. Their ears might indeed have warned 
them of danger, as well as the increasing swiftness 
of the current, but the monotonous rush of weirs is a 
sound so common on the Thames that it becomes 
almost unobservable and the excitement of the oar- 
hunt had made them heedless. 

“ What shall we do, Francis? ” 

“ Lose the oar,” replied he drily. 

‘ * Do go back ! ” she cried. 

“ I am trying to,” he answered ; but his best efforts 
did not succeed in keeping the boat’s head up the 
stream. It drifted steadily nearer the weir. 

“ Can I do nothing, Francis ! ” asked Essie, as 
quietly as though they were still lying under the 
willow. 

“ Pull up a plank,” he said, “ and try to row with it. 
This punting’s of no use.” 

She did so quickly, and sitting down beside him, 
followed his example as he bent to his oar. She was 
strong, but had scarcely ever attempted to row before, 
and the plank was but an awkward substitute for an 
oar. However, her attention was so concentrated 
on her efforts that she hardly realized the situation, 
when Francis cried with an imprecation : 

“Tis of no use, Hess. Keep hold of the plank— 
I can’t swim.” 

But in spite of this inability, he put his arm round 
her, with a vague idea that he must be able to help 
her somehow, as the boat turned broadside on and 
rocked for a moment at the top of the weir before turn- 
ing upside down. For an instant both its occupants 
disappeared under the eddying foam below. Happily 
for Esther when she came to the surface again, she 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


48 

found herself close against the overturned boat. She 
had presence of mind enough to seize hold of it, and 
in a minute more it was carried against the stout 
branch of a broken-down willow, which lay almost 
flat on the face of the stream. Essie was thus en- 
abled to lay hold of the branch and pull herself along 
it to the bank, if bank it could be called ; for the 
willow formed an island by itself in the pool below 
the weir, and when she had with some difficulty 
climbed out of the water, it was on the trunk that 
she stood. 

“Francis ! Oh, Francis ! ” she shrieked in anxious 
terror, as she saw a dark head appear in the midst of 
the foam. He had not been thrown so far out as 
herself, but he had still hold of his oar, and in a 
minute more the eddy must bring him too some- 
where near the willow. Quick as thought, she ran 
out on the projecting branch, and flinging herself on 
her face, prepared to catch him as he passed. But, 
even so, it was evident she would not be able to reach 
him. With a desperate effort she bent down a long 
branch till the water rippled through its twigs, and 
it lay right across the way 'her cousin was being 
carried. He caught it, and still in fear lest it should 
give way in his hands, she pushed the boat out to- 
wards him, and succeeded in holding it there till he 
had swung himself up beside her on the tree. When 
they were both back on the main trunk — 

“’Twas a mercy you did not fall in again,” he said 
in a scolding voice. “ How could you be so foolish 
as to venture yourself out so far on that branch ? You 
are too heavy for it.” 

“ You would have had me leave you to drown be- 
fore my eyes, Francis ? ” 

“Drown ? Pooh ! If I was blundering fool enough 
to put us both into the water, ’tis plain I should have 
been left to get myself out without your interference.” 

And he began squeezing the water out of her drip- 
ping skirts. 

“You must allow me to be glad I succeeded in 
fishing you up. Whatever should I be doing else 
alone on this tree ? ” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


49 

“The question is what you’ll be doing now,” an- 
swered he, looking ruefully at the water that streamed 
and eddied round their little island. “You lost the 
wherry while you were fishing me out. Here, sit up 
on this forked branch, and let me empty the water 
out of your shoes.” 

Esther did as she was bid, and while he was taking 
off her shoes, she began to laugh hysterically. 

“Well, if ever I save your life again, Francis, to 
get nothing but a chiding for it ! ” 

He laughed too. 

“ I don't admit you saved any of my lives, Hess, 
of which you well know there are nine. I should 
have got out by myself somehow. Yet I'll allow you 
behaved very handsome, and take notice I hereby 
thank you heartily for it, and beg to say” — he paused 
awkwardly — “to say there’s not another young lady 
in London would have shown so much courage, and 
not fainted, or screamed, or ” 

“ Or in any way behaved like a woman of quality. 
Well, Frank, I give you up my pretensions to quality, 
but shall ever obstinately maintain I saved your life.” 

“While I shall ever as obstinately maintain the 
contrary, ” replied he gravely. “ However, let us not 
dispute, but halloa for assistance, since the con- 
founded wherry’s gone out of reach.” 

They shouted together till they were out of breath, 
but without any result. Again and again they shouted, 
but no voice made reply, no figure appeared on the 
bank. The time went on ; the September sun sloped 
towards the west, and the evening air blew chill 
across the water. Esther was herself very cold, and 
more anxious on her cousin’s account than on her own, 
as he was much the more fragile of the two. But 
Francis seemed insensible to the cold and in the best of 
spirits. And the reason for this was that on the min- 
iature desert island, where fate had cast him with Essie, 
and where he found himself happier than he had been 
for months, he had consciously entered on a new 
and exciting stage of his life. He was henceforth to be 
not the brother, but the lover of Esther and the rival 
of Swift. What if his rival had fame? Francis meant to 
4 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


50 

have that too some day, and he had youth on his 
side and true love. It would be hard if in the long 
run he did not drive the elderly person out of Essie’s 
head. But however delightful he might find impris- 
onment on the willow, he was aware that it could 
hardly appear so to Esther, and was for the tenth 
time proposing a desperate plan of escape, when she 
cried out joyfully — 

“ Look ! there comes a man.” 

Beyond the pool below the weir there was a flat 
meadow with a barn in it, and beyond the barn a 
green bank sloping up to a wood. 

They perceived a dark figure coming quickly down 
the slope out of the shadow of the trees. Francis 
shouted, but the pedestrian heeded not the shout, 
for having reached the bottom of the slope, he turned 
and began to go up it again at the same sort of 
quick but awkward trot at which he had descended. 
Essie, alarmed at seeing him thus prepare to desert 
them, began in her turn to scream for help, and her 
shriller notes attracted the moody or deaf way- 
farer’s attention. He stopped, and staring about 
him, apparently observed the wherry floating bottom 
upwards, for he ran down to the water’s edge. Then, 
as it seemed, he caught sight of the two waving 
handkerchiefs and clinging figures on the willow 
branches, for shouting in answer he disappeared 
among some neighbouring branches. 

‘‘It is Dr. Swift,” said Essie. 

“Even so,” returned Francis drily. 

In a few minutes Swift reappeared, on the opposite 
bank, looking quite pale with sympathetic terror at 
Esther’s situation and the danger she must have run. 

“O Faith, you are an awkward slutakin,” he cried, 
“ and your cousin there a confounded fool ! ” 

The rush of the water drowned most of the words, 
but the last were clearly audible, and Francis, in spite 
of having applied a similar condemnation to himself 
a dozen times in the course of the last hour, smiled 
grimly. 

Shouting out a promise of help loud enough to 
reach their ears, the Doctor vanished in the direction in 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


51 


which he had come. Then they saw him again cross 
the meadow to the barn and return with a ladder 
over his shoulder. 

It was a long, heavy ladder, but he carried it easily, 
coming quickly towards them at his peculiar trot. 

It proved sufficient in length to make a bridge 
between the bank on which he stood and the trunk of 
the willow, but it required some nerve to cross such a 
bridge with the rushing stream beneath. Obviously 
the only safe plan was to cross on hands and knees, 
and Francis, setting it firmly across the trunk of the 
tree, began somewhat anxiously to instruct Essie how 
best she might cross over. But his words seemed to 
fall on deaf ears. For a moment she paused with her 
foot on the ladder and her right hand on the branch 
above ; then, still upright, she dashed forward, and 
before he had time to do more then suppress an ejac- 
ulation, she was half-way across. The too elastic 
bridge bounded beneath her tread, as she leapt from 
rung to rung. The water raced giddily beneath, but 
her foot did not slip, and her eyes, fixed on the well- 
known figure on the further side, never once strayed 
to the stream below. Swift and straight as an arrow 
from the bow, she passed over, and flinging herself 
upon her friend burst into tears on his shoulder. Too 
surprised and also too moved to consider whether 
such an attitude was or was not compromising, Swift 
soothed, scolded, and comforted her with fifty quaint 
tender expressions, now stroking her hair, now sharply 
pinching her arm. Francis, who had crossed the 
ladder in a less impulsive- manner, stood by amazed 
and embarrassed. He would as soon have expected 
to find himself in tears as his cousin. But Essie was 
not merely a woman, she was at bottom an excitable 
one ; not with the easy shallow excitabilty of her 
mother, but with the less evident, the deeper and 
more dangerous excitability of a strong temperament 
and character. It was but a few minutes she re- 
mained so, and then she sat down on the stump of a 
tree, wiped her eyes, and recovered herself as sud- 
denly as she had given way. Swift stood in front, 
shaking his cane. 


52 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“Plague on you, tiresome brat,” he cried ; “ what 
a fright you have given me ! I feel for all the world 
like the drabs in the street slapping their children 
betwixt anger and joy when they get them out safe 
from under the waggon-wheels. And pray, young 
sir,” he added, turning with more genuine severity 
to Francis, ‘ ‘ what excuse ha vejyou to offer for bringing 
a lady that was under your care in danger of her life, 
to say nothing of ruining her new damask dress ; a 
misfortune of which she will be sensible to-morrow ? ” 

“O, none whatever, sir,” replied Francis coldly, 
meeting with unflinching eye a gaze which had struck 
awe into bosoms apparently hardier and certainly 
more important than his. 

Esther hastened to declare herself the first to blame, 
and between the two, Swift was quickly in possession 
of the few facts of their adventure. 

“But come, Hessinage,” he cried, “ we had best 
walk briskly to Lord Mordaunt’s house. Tis not a 
mile from hence.” 

At the mention of Lord Mordaunt's name all Esther's 
spirit returned to her. 

“No ! ” she cried, “ I do most utterly refuse to pre- 
sent myself at myself at that young man's door in 
such a plight. Go you, Francis, and tell them to 

put to the horses, and meet me Pray, dear sir, 

where shall he tell them to meet me ? ” 

“ O Faith, Governor Huff, yon must be reasonable ! 
Come now to his Lordship’s, and dry that draggled 
tail of yours, and warm your bones a little before you 
start for town, else you will catch a great cold.” 

‘ ‘ I care not for great colds, Doctor. I will have fifty 
colds rather than beg civility of that detestable fel- 
low. Besides, 'tis already so late that if we delay 
there, Aunt Stone will declare she durst not for her 
life start for London at such an hour — she would have 
stayed behind at Windsor had it not been for the 
expense— and O ! how I should hate to be perhaps 
the cause of our spending a night beneath Lord 
Mordaunt's roof ! ” She did not add that her mother 
and sister, for other reasons than Mrs. Stone's, would 
joyfully accept any invitation that might be extended 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


53 

to the party, but Francis understood her fears, and 
both because he shared them, and because it was 
pleasant to back her wishes in opposition to Swift's, 
he said — 

“I am of your mind, Hess, There must be some 
neighbouring cottage where you can dry your clothes, 
and if the Doctor will direct me, I can run to his 
Lordship's and presently bring Mrs. Vanhomrigh and 
the coach to fetch you." 

“You are certain to do as you please, Governor, 
reason or no reason," returned Swift, shrugging his 
shoulders, “ and this time, I own, you have blundered 
on to the better plan. The Peterborough Arms is 
nearer this than the Manor, and nearer the coach-road 
too ; and so there you you shall go, and that quickly." 

He took her hands to pull her up, and then began 
hurrying her across the field in the direction from 
which he had himself come. Francis came behind, 
somewhat mortified to find how much he was en- 
cumbered by the ladder which the Doctor, whom 
he was pleased to regard as advanced in years, 
had carried with so much ease and dexterity. But 
having replaced it by the barn, he started off, running 
up the woodland path whence Swift had first appeared, 
with the light foot of youth and activity. Esther 
and her companion struck across the fields towards 
the Peterborough Arms. They were glad to be alone, 
but more silent than when Francis was following 
them. A natural love of secrecy and the habits 
formed by another long and but half-acknowledged 
intimacy, made Swift almost unconsciously dif- 
ferent in his manner to Essie when they talked 
together without witnesses. It was a difference 
so natural and so subtle as to escape definition, and 
not to be remembered by himself with any pang of 
conscience ; yet the charm of it thrilled through 
every fibre of her being and wrapped her in a -warm 
mist of dreams. 

The great ball of the sun had now gone down, and 
a red fire of sunset burned half round the horizon, 
while opposite the moon began to glow almost as redly 
through the dim purple of the autumn evening. Yet 


54 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

it was hardly twilight, for the sky and water were full 
of reflected light. The grass took a strange metallic 
green, and the high woods, so dark at noon, showed 
brown and tawny against the sunset. Essie, whose 
friend loved to rally her on her romantic delight in 
rural scenery, scarcely ventured a remark on the 
peculiar beauty of the evening ; but it lingered in her 
memory as the fitting close of a day marked out from 
its “obscure compeers.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

They reached the Peterborough Arms at the same 
moment that Francis approached the Manor House, 
which standing alone among the fields, was unmis- 
takable. It was a fine Jacobean house with two square 
bays projecting the whole height of it, on each side 
of the main door. The space in front was enclosed by 
a cut yew hedge, but from the sloping ground above 
it Francis could see a coach standing there. Crossing 
what had once been a moat, he found his way through 
a maze of overgrown paths to the front door. As he 
issued from a lattice gate in the yew hedge, he was 
greeted by a shriek from the coach, in which Mrs. 
Stone, determined that if there was any dangerous 
delay it should not be through the Stone family, had 
been seated for the last half-hour with her daughter 
beside her. 

“Well, Mr. Earle, here you are,” cried Anna, thrust- 
ing a sharp and agitated nose out of the window. 
“Where the plague have you been? And, Lord, 
what a figure you are ! We’ve been waiting for you 
this age, and half the household are seeking you. ” 

“Indeed, miss, I’m sorry for’t. I’ve been in the 
water,” panted Francis, out of breath with his run, 
and bounding up the steps he gave a sounding rat-tat- 
tat on the old oaken door. As he did so it struck him 
that perhaps the whole affair was a dream. The 
wrought-iron mermaid that formed the knocker 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


55 

seemed perfectly familiar to him, and so did the 
carved monogram and motto above the porch. As 
he followed the black boy who appeared at his sum- 
mons through the square hall, this impression of famil- 
iarity deepened. He found the rest of the party as- 
sembled in a handsome bay-windowed parlour, drink- 
ing a stirrup-cup of burnt wine and spices. They, 
like the Stones, greeted him with a volley of exclama- 
tions, questions and upbraidings, that scarcely left 
room for his account of himself. They had not, how- 
ever, long been anxious about the missing couple, 
whom they imagined to have passed the landing-place 
by a mistake easily made, as the Manor was not 
within sight of the river. Mrs. Vanhomrigh was not in- 
clined to be anxious, and knowing Essie to have taken 
one of her unfortunate dislikes to that amiable young 
nobleman Lord Mordaunt, felt sure that if such had 
been the case neither she nor Francis would have 
been in a hurry to rectify their mistake. Lord Mor- 
daunt was well-bred enough to fulfil his duties as host 
with a grace that cost him nothing, for he was begin- 
ning to feel a definite interest in his languid pursuit of 
Molly. That she would drop into his clutches one day 
he had no manner of doubt, but to bring that result 
about might cost just enough scheming to amuse him, 
and give a certain piquancy to the affair. So his 
Lordship’s civil behaviour was such as to afford the 
Vanhomrighs an excuse for rapture, and what with 
walking in the grounds, drinking Bohea tea, and 
viewing the Dutch and Chinese curiosities with which 
some former occupant had stocked the house, the 
moments would have flown unmarked until Francis 
made his appearance, had it not been for Mrs. Stone. 
She, good lady, could not be consoled even by the 
society of a nobleman for the dangers of the return 
journey, which seemed to her to be increased by every 
moment of delay. Nor were her fears so ridiculous 
as the Vanhomrighs declared, since highwaymen 
were proverbially common on Hounslow Heath. 
Her impatient enquiries after the missing two were 
not, however, all prompted by self-interest, for she 
was really surprised at the equanimity with which 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


56 

Madam Van took their unexplained disappearance, 
and was glad when she had succeeded in instilling 
enough anxiety into that lady’s buoyant bosom for 
some of his Lordship’s men to be sent to seek them. 
When Mrs. Vanhomrigh understood what had really 
happened, she was distracted with retrospective 
alarm, and prepared to rush off at once to the Peter- 
borough Arms. 

“ But pray, mamma,” said Molly, “let Francis dry 
his clothes first. We shall have him down with an 
ague, or worse, if he sits in the coach like this.” 

“ Oh, my poor child ! ” cried Mrs. Vanhomrigh, at 
once embracing him and feeling his coat, “ how do 
I forget thee ! ’Tis true thou’rt wet and cold too, on 
my conscience ! Quick, Ginckel ! let your man get 
him a dry suit out of your valise.” 

Ginckel gave his mother a look ; seldom had he 
felt so keenly her thoughtlessness and want of all 
sense of the fitness of things. 

“ Cousin Earle and I are scarce of a size, madam,” 
he answered, drawing himself up to his full height, 
which was not very formidable. “ But there is 
a good fire in my chamber, before which, with his 
Lordship’s permission, he can dry himself. ” 

“ Ay, and keep me waiting till Christmas,” returned 
she petulantly. 

Francis had in truth just begun to be conscious 
of the chill of his wet clothes, but he was of coiirse 
ready to deny the necessity for changing them, and 
Mrs. Vanhomrigh in her haste to begone would have 
accepted the denial. Molly, however, who like 
Essie was still accustomed to regard him as the 
chief invalid of the family, was not satisfied, and 
Lord Mordaunt, willing to please her, took the trouble 
to suggest that her cousin might stay behind and sub- 
sequently join the coach on the high road by a short 
cut across the fields. Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s leave-taking 
was short but effusive, and accepted with languid con- 
descension by her host. He exerted himself so far 
as to wrap a scarf round Molly, and murmur in reply 
to her thanks for his hospitality, “ Fie, dear miss, ’tis 
but old maid’s entertainment, Bohea and civility. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


57 


Come again and try true bachelor’s fare ; that they 
say’s bread and cheese and kisses.” 

Francis meantime having followed the black boy 
up the wide oak stairs to an upper room, hurriedly 
divested himself of his garments, and sitting by the 
fire wrapped in Ginckel’s embroidered bed-gown, im- 
patiently expected their return. On the wall opposite 
him hung a piece of tapestry representing Adam and 
and Eve parleying with a Dutch Creator, who had 
made them solidly in his own image. Time had 
done much to blend the outline of the figures with 
the blues and greens of Eden, so that in spite of the 
clumsiness of the figures, the whole piece made a 
a pleasant bit of colour in the large bare bed-chamber. 
It was not, however, its decorative effect that gave 
it a fascination in the eyes of Francis ; it was the 
curious train of fancies that it suggested. He not 
only seemed to be familiar with it, which was natu- 
ral enough, since the design was not uncommon, 
but he had a distinct impression that if he opened 
the door yonder, by the great bedstead with its faded 
hangings, he would find himself in a narrow room, 
a sort of small gallery, where two similar pieces, 
presenting the Temptation of Eve and the Expulsion 
from Paradise, would hang on his right hand facing the 
windows. There would be an oriel at the end opposite 
him and a few bits of quaint Dutch marqueterie fur- 
niture along the walls. He smiled athis own delusion, 
but it was so strong that he rose and, at the risk of 
intruding on Ginckel’s own man or some yet more 
dignified individual, opened the door of communica- 
tion. The lighted sconce and the flickering fire in the 
bed-chamber threw but a feeble glimmer into the 
adjoining room, but the moon, which Essie had 
watched dawning so redly, now shone large and 
golden in the sky. It poured its beams through the 
ample lattices that formed one side of the gallery, 
and Francis, now no longer with his mind’s eye, 
but actually, saw every object as he had conjured it 
up. The mechanism of memory having once been 
set to work, went on reproducing with inconceivable 
speed a thousand lost impressions. His remem- 


ESTHER VANHOMRTGH. 


58 

brance of his mother was not particularly tender, 
but perfectly distinct. He recollected well playing 
round her toilette -table of a morning, while his 
nurse dressed her head, fingering the silver knick- 
knacks upon it, pulling out odd little drawers, and 
generally finding himself banished to jump up and 
down the step of an oriel window. There was the step 
and there the toilette-table, pushed against the wall, 
with its glass reflecting only the bright moonlight, and 
bare of its silver knick-knacks, but with the same 
countless drawers and inlaid bouquets of flowers 
which his childish fingers had too persistently picked. 
From the window he saw a stone terrace, a sun-dial 
and a fish-pond, whose images had always remained 
impressed upon his memory. He returned to the 
bed-chamber in a state of excitement. He told him- 
self that faded memories might combine with coin- 
cidence to deceive him ; this house and garden might 
be like, but he could not be sure that they were iden- 
tical with the home of his earliest childhood ; also 
that even if he were not mistaken in his facts, he 
might not be able to follow up the clue thus found, 
and that, moreover, if he did, his discoveries would 
do him no good. In vain. He was of an inquisitive 
and somewhat contrary disposition, and from the 
moment that he discovered that a mystery had been 
thrown round his parentage, had from time to time 
determined, to penetrate it. Of late a hope that 
could he find his father he might plead with him 
more successfully than with the lawyer at Windsor, 
had given a keener edge to his curiosity. 

The black boy reappeared with his clothes, and 
hastily, enduing them, he made his way downstairs, 
determined to return to the place at some more conve- 
nient opportunity and question any old residents he 
might find in the neighbourhood. At the foot of the 
stairs he met a footman bearing a folded scrap of 
paper addressed to himself, and opening it, read in 
dim and scrawly characters : 

*‘Ml DEAR CHILDE, 

“ You must now stay at his lordships 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

this nite, which he will not be at alle onwilling, for 
Essy’s arm being somthing renched, and her as ex- 
tream sicke as ever I saw her, and your Aunt Stone 
mitey affeared of the gentlemen of the rode, as you 
no, poor creeter, the kinde Dr. extends to us his ors- 
pitality and lodges us alle in Winser till tomorrer 
mornen, wen we shall egspect you mi deare at the 
signe of the Wite harte and am your loving cousin, 

“Esther Vanhomrigh, the elder.” 


Francis crumpled up the note in his hand, and 
stood still on the last step of the stair, smiling sardon- 
ically to himself. So the little comedy he and Esther 
had foreseen had been acted, with a slight change of 
scene and personages. Probably she was better 
pleased with it now, but he was not. Meantime the 
footman also stood still, keeping an eye on him till 
he was recalled to a sense of his obligations, Francis 
began to hunt for his purse, and then suddenly asked 
him if he knew who had occupied the house before 
Lord Mordaunt’s day. 

“This 'ouse, m’ lord, this’ouse ? ” returned the man, 
pretending to consider the question and really watch- 
ing for the appearance of the purse. He did not of 
course mistake this shabby-looking little gentleman 
for a lord, but he commonly used the title in preference 
to the plebeian sir, as showing in what society he 
was accustomed to wait, and as generally conducing 
to his own sense of dignity. The vails produced being 
larger than he had judged likely, he grew affable. 

“Troth, your Honour/' he said, “ this 'ouse an’t 
no place for people of quality. I doubt even the 
gentry would find it sadly too ancient to live in. I 
'ave heard his Lordship intends, when he comes of 
age, to pull it down and build a mansion nearer to 
Windsor." 

“DM the late Lord Mordaunt live here?" asked 
Francis. 

“The late Lord Mordaunt, your Honour, and the 
late Honourable John did both use to come here for 
stag-hunting and such like, when the Court was at 


60 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

Windsor/’ returned the man, “the same as his pres- 
ent Lordship.” 

The footman pocketed his vails, and Francis con- 
tinued his way to the parlour, to announce his inten- 
tion not indeed of staying the night, but of walking 
to Windsor, where he could easily find a lodging at 
an inn. Lord Mordaunt, who viewed him with in- 
difference but not dislike, civilly offered him a bed, 
and on his declining that, observed that he might as 
well wait supper, as two gentlemen were expected 
from the neighbourhood of Windsor, and would prob- 
ably be able to give him a cast on his way in their 
chariot. Francis, for whom the place had a fascina- 
tion, willingly accepted the latter invitation, and see- 
ing his Lordship was in high good-humour, ventured 
to put some questions to him about the house and its 
former owners. 

“ The estate came to Lord Peterborough from a 
cousin,” said his host, “and Gad ! the land is worth 
having. As to the house,” looking round him with 
contempt, “ ’tis a rare old den and half-way to 
Jericho. I am surprised his Lordship didn’t destroy 
it, but the old dog knew a trick worth two of that. ” 

It was scarcely a filial fashion of naming his parent, 
and he ended with a sneering laugh, but immediately 
afterwards left the room with some alacrity, exclaim- 
ing, “Ay, there comes Tom and Peter.” 

There was a sound of wheels dashing up to the 
door, the steps of the chariot clattered down, and there 
rushed into the house a torrent of youthful noise and 
high spirits. The hall re-echoed with loud greetings 
and laughter, and when the dlamorous party, consist- 
ing of the two arrivals, Ginckel and Lord Mordaunt, 
entered the parlour, Francis was surprised to observe 
that the latter was contributing to the tumult. That 
Ginckel’s mincing manners should be doffed as easily 
as his coat was to be expected, but the languid, silent 
gravity of Lord Mordaunt seemed an integral part of 
him. Indeed it was not an affectation. Generally 
speaking, ladies bored him ; he had not naturally any 
conversation for them, and was too lazy and indiffer- 
ent to invent it. The Vanhomrighs would have 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


61 


been scandalised to learn that he found their society 
attractive partly because, being his inferiors in rank, 
he did not think it necessary to treat them with such 
ceremonious politeness as custom and surroundings 
enforced upon him among people of quality. This, 
and pretty Molly’s lively tongue, which at once tickled 
his fancy and saved him all conversational trouble, 
together with the instinctive gregariousness of the idle, 
had caused him to drift into the company so often 
while the town was empty. Had they seen him in 
Lady Peterborough’s withdrawing-room, they would 
have observed a difference in his manners ; had they 
seen him among his young companions, a transfor- 
mation. The two young men who preceded him 
were of a more commonplace type, a year or two 
younger than himself, rosy, and robustly built, but 
with a certain bloatedness of appearance which aug- 
ured ill for their future comfort. Francis subsequently 
learned their names to be Tom Raikes and Peter 
Ponsonby. The whole party burst into the parlour 
convulsed by some rare stroke of their own humour, 
headed by Mr. Raikes, who, unable to let off his 
feelings by mere cachinnation, was mingling with it 
a variety of strange shrieks, and striking the air vio- 
lently with his loose right hand, till the joints cracked 
like small pistol-shots. Ginckel, dressed in pearl- 
coloured cloth, with freshly-combed peruke and fine 
perfumed handkerchief pressed to his mouth, followed 
his host cackling shrilly ; in the rear gleamed the grin 
of Tully, the black boy, who could not help adding 
a guttural explosion to the general roar, while the 
high glasses of Rhenish wine and sugar, which he 
carried on a massive silver salver, rattled again. 
Whereat his master paused abruptly in his mirth and 
swore at him savagely ; then, “ Keep your cursed 
throat still, you dog, and don’t spill the wine.” And 
turning to his friends : “Drink, boys, drink — you’ll 
ne’er taste better. Old Peterborough brought it from 
Germany, and if his butler weren’t a better friend to 
me than he is, you’d never ha’ seen the colour of it 
this night.” 

As the wine went round — a wine whose bouquet it 


62 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


would have drawn tears from a connoisseur to divine 
through the cloying sugar — Mr. Earle was named to 
the new guests. The introduction was so cursory it 
formed no interruption to the series of whoops, laughs 
and oaths, whereby the ball of conversation was kept 
flying, while the wine was being despatched. Just 
as the ball had dropped, Tom Raikes, who lay in a 
chair with his hat over his eyes and was drumming 
on the table with the foot of his glass, started it afresh 
by suddenly slapping his knee, and doubling up in a 
fresh convulsion of merriment. 

“O Lord! O Lord, the parson! That’s what I 
ha’n’t forgot ! ” he shrieked ; “never bammed a fel- 
low so neatly in all my days. Mordaunt, lad, Mor- 
daunt ! the parson leaping for a guinea with his 
plaguey petticoats tucked up across his arm ! ” 

“Ay, ay,” joined in Ponsonby, with a burst of ex- 
ultant imprecations, “’twas the rarest trick of the 
deal. Lord, the fellow’s phiz, when I says to Tom 
quite quiet — ‘Torn, smoke the Bishop at the window’ 
— just like that I says it. Didn’t I, Tom ? ” 

“Ay, and then,” continued Tom, throwing up his 
hat and catching it again, “if the dirty fellow didn’t 
dispute the vardi and make as though he’d keep his 
guinea; but I promise you I had it out of him, though 
'twas dearer than blood.” 

“Well done, my lad !” cried Mordaunt. “Trust a 
parson for sticking to his money, and you forgetting 
it out of him ! ” He reflected with some bitterness 
on the guinea he himself had sacrificed to the cloth 
that day. “But you won’t make your fortin out of 
leaping with parsons, three leaps a guinea.” 

“And devilish dear at the price,” observed Peter. 

“’Tistrue, if he don’t make it, he won’t lose it 
neither,” sneered Mordaunt. “You take my advice 
and stick to the beggarly parsons, Tom, lest heavy in 
the purse prove light in the leg.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! that’s pure ! Smoke that, Tommy ! ” 
cried Peter ; and all laughed except Mr. Raikes, who 
sat up and swore with dignity. He was a short-legged, 
fat young man, whose appearance entirely belied his 
boasted agility. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


63 

“Pray divert yourselves, gentlemen/' he said, after 
devoting his companions piecemeal to perdition, “but 
I’ll lay you, Mordaunt, and you, Ponsonby, and Van 
there, and Mr. What-d’ye-call, if he be no parson, a 
hundred pounds apiece, I beat you all at three leaps 
each — two of you o’ Monday, and two o’ Tuesday, 
meet when you will. I’ll lay ’em and win ’em too, 
gentlemen — lay 'em and win ’em too.” 

“No, hang me, not of me ! ” exclaimed Lord Mor- 
daunt. “ Leap ! Why the deuce should I leap ? If 
it had to be done, I’d make my nigger do it. Go to 
Bedlam, Tom, and leap for a hundred straws.” 

“ Well said, Mordaunt,” cried Ponsonby. “I love 
a wager, but for sport I’d a precious deal sooner put 
my money on four legs than on two.” 

“What, all affeared?” jeered Tom, feeling it safe 
to assume a swagger. “Come, Colonel, come now, 
when will you meet?” 

“If I may dance for’t, Tommy,” replied the Colonel, 
taking snuff and smiling with the indulgence of the 
elder man and the acknowledged beau, “ let it be at 
the next Birthday. Leaping, I take it, ’s for country 
putts. Yet here’s Mr. Earle, who’s been swimming, 
ha ! ha ! to-day, and for aught I know may love leap- 
ing as well.” 

He felt some mortification at the unexpected pres- 
ence at their select party of Francis in his camlet 
suit, somewhat shabby to start with and the worse 
for the water, and his own draggled brown hair. So 
he at the same time disclaimed any close connection 
with him, and took revenge for the unavoidable one 
of which he was conscious. 

“Hey, Mr. Earle, sir, what do you say ?” 

“I say that my legs never yet carried the weight 
of a hundred pounds, save of my own fool’s flesh.” 

This candid confession of poverty, confirmed by 
the speaker’s appearance, emboldened Mr. Raikes. 

“I care not,” he said. “Say ten and done, and 
meet me o’ Monday with the gentlemen here for 
judges.” 

Francis shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Raikes, but I have other fish to fry. ” 


64 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“A plague on you, sir. You shall not get off thus,” 
cried Raikes insolently, kicking off his shoes. “ Mor- 
daunt, let Tully bring a cane, and we’ll e’en leap 
here before supper. If the door be opened there’ll 
be room and to spare.” 

Then he came up to his adversary and made as if 
he would pull off his coat. Francis, with his hands 
in his pockets, persisted in declining the invitation. 
Mr. Raikes now took him round the body and began 
dragging him towards the middle of the room. This 
was horse-play of a kind vastly to amuse the assist- 
ants, and they roared again, encouraging the strug- 
gling pair in the choicest language of the cock-pit. 

“ Gad ! Mr. Earle,” said his Lordship, “don’t cross 
poor Tom. You shall leap and not risk a penny, 
for I’ll put ten guineas on you myself, just for the 
sport on’t.” 

“Ay ! so will I,” cried Ponsonby with many as- 
sentations. 

Francis’ blood was now thoroughly up ; he jerked 
himself free from Raikes’ grasp, leaving his coat in 
the enemy’s hands. 

“Deuce take your guineas, gentlemen !” he said. 
“ Lay ’em where you please. I’ll leap against Mr. 
Raikes for nothing, and if I don’t beat him first leap, 
I’ll engage to leap again for any stake he may name. 
But you must let me place the cane as I choose.” 

“Done,” cried Tom. “Done, Mordaunt, and 
done, Peter ! The odds are even.” And he threw 
off his coat, and bounded awkwardly several times 
into the air. 

Now Mr. Raikes’ belief in his own agility was one 
of those strong delusions that are sometimes sent 
upon young men— from the gods, as we must sup- 
pose, since they have no apparent origin in this 
world. The laziness of the youths of fashion with 
whom he consorted, and the awkwardness of the 
unlucky parson before mentioned, had encouraged 
his conceit, and as in the casual struggle that had 
just taken place his weight had given him the ad- 
vantage over his slender antagonist, he imagined 
himself sure of victory and twenty guineas. But 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH. 


65 

though a sturdy, he was also a clumsy, self-in- 
dulgent young man, quite unfit to contend in such 
a sport with one of active and temperate habits. 
Francis, having quickly appropriated two small 
ombre tables, began piling folios out of the book- 
shelf. He piled up his edifice silently and savagely 
to the utmost height that he thought he could clear, 
and then placed across it the bamboo provided by 
Tully. The others looked on at his arrangements. 

“Lord! you must be meaning to run under it,” 
observed Ponsonby, who began to tremble for his 
guineas. Tom meantime was busy taking out the 
half-ell of black ribbon that tied his shirt in order 
to tie back his peruke. He stared at Francis' pre- 
parations, but concluding them to be part of the 
bravado of despair, followed him out of the door. 
The others pressing close to the door-way, looked 
eagerly down the dimly-lighted bit of corridor and 
hall along which they were to run. Francis came 
first. Rage at the species of baiting to which he had 
been subjected, and perhaps the fumes of the Rhenish 
in his blood, made him feel as if he had wings on 
his heels. The moment he started a satisfied smile 
began to dawn on the faces of his two backers who 
were shrewd enough where their money was con- 
cerned. It broadened and broke into a short laugh 
of gratification as he passed them, and flying clean 
over the bamboo with two inches to spare, came down 
lightly but firmly on the polished boards beyond. 

A minute afterwards Raikes blundered by, all 
arms and legs, made a desperate bound and plunge, 
and fell prone under a table and an avalanche of 
folios ; for, whether purposely or not, Francis had so 
arranged the cane that it did not, as might have been 
expected, fly at the first touch of an indiscreet toe. 

Such an accident happening to any one would have 
seemed good joke enough to the three spectators, 
but happening as it did to their particular crony Tom, 
their delighi .knew no bounds. Besides there was 
the money invoked. The shrill cackle of Ginckel 
Mordaunt’s grating laugh, and Ponsonby's younger 
and heartier hilarity bi ^ke out in a simultaneous roar 


66 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


over the prostrate form of their companion, Francis, 
with an impassive face, began to put on his waistcoat. 
Raikes, his natural clumsiness increased by wrath 
and disappointment, struggled for some minutes on 
the slippery well-waxed boards before he could get 
to his feet, and then stood glaring savagely round, 
his peruke all awry. 

“Egad, my Lord, he’s going to eat us without salt 
or pepper ! ” cried Peter, pointing at him. 

“Ill carve ye to begin with, at any rate,” replied 
Raikes, and swearing an oath or two, considered 
whom first he should devour. Then he took up a 
sword that lay on the table, and approaching Lord 
Mordaunt with a truculent air — 

“Demme, my Lord,” said he, “you may refuse a 
leaping engagement, but there’s meetings no gentle- 
man or nobleman either can refuse.” 

His Lordship became suddenly grave. 

“Come, Raikes,” said he, drawing him into the 
embrasure of the window, “don’t let’s drive a jest too 
far. Deuce take thee, man ! whose notion was the 
leaping but thine own? Sure,” he continued, lower- 
ing his voice, ‘ ‘ ’tis but reasonable these sort of rascals, 
that must earn their living by their heads or their heels, 
should have some advantage over men of quality.” 
And again raising his voice, “You was obstinate to do 
it, my lad, but anyone could see you was not in good 
jumping trim to-day. An’t that so, Van? ” 

The Colonel and Ponsonby, though surprised at 
Mordaunt’s unwonted conciliatoriness, followed his 
lead. Tom was pacified as quickly as he had been 
roused, and when supper had begun to warm his 
heart by way of his stomach, he solemnly pledged 
Francis across the table. 

“ You beat me handsomely, sir,” he said. “Dem- 
me, I own it. You may go boast you beat Tom 
Raikes of Morley, and, ’pon honour, there’s ' ot many 
could say that much.” 

“Sir, you flatter me,” replied Francis gravely, 
bowing over his glass. 

Ponsonby was also grave, ar a kept fixing a con- 
sidering eye on the obscure ''outh. Two days before 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 67 

he had lost a valuable race-horse, by name Ramillies, 
and in spite of his avowed preference for placing his 
money on four legs rather than on two, he was not 
in a mood to throw away any chance. Accustomed, 
like Raikes, to the society of lazy fine gentlemen, 
young Earle’s leaping powers seemed to him much 
more remarkable than they really were. It occurred 
to him that a partnership between capital and labour, 
as personated by himself and Mr. Earle, might be of 
service to both, and so much was he taken with his 
idea, that no polite retort of Francis’ would shake 
him loose from it. Lord Mordaunt, however, who 
was a youth of some discrimination, at length inter- 
vened. 

“ Don’t be tedious, Peter. The gentleman knows 
well enough there an’t no money in your concerns. 
Faith, but I was in luck to have nothing on your 
Ramillies ! Was your eggs all in one basket, or will 
you ride to Datchet races with Tom and me next 
week ? ” 

“Shall we have the diversion of meeting your 
Lordship’s Papa ? ” asked Ponsonby, and laughed. 

Tom laughed louder, and brought an imaginary 
cane whistling through the air and down on some 
solid object. The reference was to a little episode 
that had taken place at the New Market two years 
before, when Lord Mordaunt had unexpectedly en- 
countered his father on the race-course and had been 
peremptorily forbidden to return thither till he should 
be of age. This time Lord Mordaunt looked with 
disgust on the mirth of his companions. 

“ Lord Peterbrow,” he said indifferently, “starts 
for Spain to-morrow. Where he’ll be next week is 
more than any man can tell.” 

“Well, well,” said Vanhomrigh, holding up his 
glass, “ I hope I may without offence drink the noble 
traveller’s voyage to that land — what does the play 
call it? — that land ‘from which no traveller returns.’” 
Mordaunt smiled disagreeably, but made no remark. 

“A — men,” cried Tom in a sepulchral voice, seizing 
a bottle. “And bumpers all round.” 

And the two young guests who sat at the opposite 


68 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


side of the table to the Colonel and Francis waved 
their glasses vociferously in the direction of a portrait 
which faced them, and which Francis gathered from 
their exclamations to be that of Lord Peterborough, 
though its position, behind him and beyond the light 
of the candles on the table, prevented his seeing it 
clearly. 

When the enthusiasm of the toast had subsided — 
“ Who’s the nymph ? ” asked Ponsonby, pointing with 
his glass to another portrait in the same direction. 
“Hang me, if I can see her ! ” 

“ That an’t your loss,” replied Mordaunt. “ She’s 
no beauty, for all the painter could do. What’s her 
name, Tom ? Lord ! how should I know ? I call her 
Peterbrow’s Folly.” 

He went on between oaths and ill words to explain 
that the nameless nymph had in some long past time 
been placed by Lord Peterborough in this house ; 
that at the caprice of the fantastic lady it had been 
filled with the valuable Chinese curiosities which 
Lord Mordaunt had that afternoon been exhibiting to 
his visitors. That Lord Peterborough should have 
wasted on his own amusement sums, which other- 
wise might have now been profitably used in extend- 
ing his son’s, naturally moved the indignation of 
Lord Mordaunt and his companions. 

That double consciousness, which is latent in every- 
one, plays an exceptionally large part in the mind of 
the lover. The thought of the beloved is imminent 
In all other thoughts, and continually tends to de- 
velop and overpower them. The image of Esther 
had never been absent from Francis’ consciousness 
that evening, and now appeared as a definite com- 
ment on what was passing around him. From the 
mental vision of that countenance he looked with 
disgust and contempt on Ginckel’s profile next him 
— so irritating in its likeness to his sister’s — agape 
and thrust forward to form one of a group of faces, 
all in different proportions degraded by low and 
vinous merriment, and with nothing of youth left in 
them but its weakness. This was the Colonel who, 
in St. James’ Street, gave himself the airs of the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


69 

superior male creature, guardian and protector, and 
when in his most unselfish mood, schemed to secure 
even such a one as himself as a husband for Molly 
or Esther. In spite of jealousy, Francis could not 
but feel it a satisfaction to picture the three ladies 
at a distance, in a quiet little parlour at Windsor, 
probably rallying Dr. Swift and Mr, Lewis over coffee 
and oranges. The contrast came indeed as some- 
thing of a relief to jealousy. He had said to him- 
self before, and now repeated with more conviction, 
that since this was the type of man whom Ginckel 
brought to St. James’ Street, it was no wonder that 
Esther, who was not so blind as her mother, turned 
with enthusiasm to the society and even to the wor- 
ship of Swift and his friends. But it was a consider- 
ably greater satisfaction to return in fancy to the 
willow, to stand close to the branch on which Essie 
sat, and to dispute with her whether or not she had 
saved him from death by drowning. He was re- 
called from this pleasant excursion by two dark ob- 
jects flying over his head, their simultaneous thud 
against the picture behind him being greeted by yells 
of delight from three of the company. He started 
angrily, but soon perceived that the shots were not 
directed at him. Lord Mordaunt, who was never 
quite hurried off his feet by any excitement, and was 
also of an orderly disposition, was annoyed at the 
bombardment of what he knew to be a valuable pos- 
session. 

“Curse you, fellows!” he said, with a sudden 
change of voice and manner. “If you want a mark 
to cast greasy dumplings at, take Tully there into 
the garden. You won't spoil his beauty, and if you 
did, he ant worth so much money as the hussy 
yonder, who had herself painted by the best master 
in the Hague.” 

“ Oddso, man! how tetchy you turn, when we 
did it out of pure friendship to your Lordship,” cried 
Peter. 

“Tully,” continued Mordaunt, “take a light and 
rub the grease off yonder picture with your hand- 
kerchief. Look alive, and be hanged to you ! ” 


70 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


The negro took one of the heavy silver candlesticks 
off the table, and putting it on the floor near him, 
climbed laboriously on to a high oak stool to accom- 
plish the task. The flickering flame glittered on his 
silver dog-collar and beady eyes, but did not enable 
him to see the marks on the picture. Francis good- 
naturedly rose and lifted the candle. As he did so 
from the darkness of the recess where the picture 
hung, and from out the yet deeper darkness of its 
background, his mother’s face looked on him — not 
tenderly, but as it had been used to smile in life, 
subtly and mockingly. The curious pale long-eyed 
face was not in the least like any other he had ever 
seen. The feeling of mingled fear and fascination, 
with which he had regarded her as a child, returned 
upon him, and the candle shook in his hand, as 
addressing Lord Mordaunt with a dazed look — 

“What was her name, did you say?” he stam- 
mered. 

His Lordship stared. 

“I said, hang me if I knew,” he replied. “And 
I’ll trouble you, sir, not to spill my wax on my 
nigger’s silk stockings.” 

Attention was then called to poor Tully’s dumb 
contortions of person and countenance — it is to be 
feared his concern was rather for his own legs than 
for his master’s silk stockings — and they gave rise 
to fresh mirth. 

“Gad ! I forgot to tell you the end of the story,” 
continued Mordaunt when silence was restored, “ and 
yet ’twas the best of it. The witch there was burnt 
to death, luckily for us, before she had sucked the 
last guinea out of old Peterbrow. He’s never been 
near the place since, but they say you may meet her 
in the gallery any night of the week. So I wish you 
joy of her company, Van.” 

The Colonel smiled a sickly smile. 

“ She was burnt to death,” Lord Mordaunt had 
said. . Francis had a recollection of waking one 
morning to a house full of strange confusion and 
whispered horror, and he had gathered that his mother 
had died in some sudden and shocking way, but 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


7 * 


till this moment he had not known how. He lifted 
the light up to the portrait opposite hers, which he 
knew to be Lord Peterborough’s ; this revived a much 
less distinct memory, yet one not wholly obliterated. 
So at last by chance he had picked up the key to the 
mystery, which he had so often tried to solve. He 
dropped into his chair, and passed his hand across 
his eyes like one giddy. Lord Mordaunt glanced at 
him and taking him to be overcome with wine, made 
no remark, but was reminded thereby that if business 
was to be done that evening, it was time to leave off 
passing the bottle. He rose abruptly and mar- 
shalled his somewhat unwilling company back to the 
parlour in which they had first met. The spirits of 
his three comrades were not sobered even by the 
sight of the card- tables prepared there. Tom Raikes 
had begun again to make strange cracking noises 
with his fingers, which admired accomplishment 
Ponsonby and Vanhomrigh were vainly endeavouring 
to imitate. This was not the kind of sport in which 
Mordaunt ever took an active part, and now he 
looked on with a frown of impatience. 

“Come, gentlemen, what’s your game?” he asked. 
“ Lu, or five-handed Ombre ? ” 

“My Lord, I do not play,” said Francis. 

His Lordship accepted the statement with an in- 
different nod. Yet it was an extraordinary one in 
an age when cards were the common passion of all 
ages and both sexes. In any other young man it 
would have argued something like heroism to have 
made it in such company, but it cost Francis no effort 
4o take his own line in such matters. Had the vice 
of gambling been less ordinary, it might, in spite 
of his common sense, have had temptations for him. 
As it was, the sordid side of it lay continually open 
to those critical observations which it was his pleas- 
ure to make on things in general. His mind was 
still in the state of excitement caused by his unex- 
pected discovery, but it was now a calm and lumi- 
nous excitement, in which the images of things and 
people presented themselves to him with extreme 
clearness and meaning, without interrupting the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


72 . 

course of an inward debate as to his action or in- 
action, which he felt to be of immediate importance 
— for was not Lord Peterborough starting for Spain 
next morning ? The reverence for mere bonds of 
blood was still strong in that generation, and the 
conviction that Mordaunt was his brother gave that 
heretofore rather indifferently despised young man a 
sudden interest for him. 

For Mordaunt the silent youth at the fireplace be- 
hind him had ceased to exist. He was seated at the 
card-table. Tully had removed his peruke and was 
tying a silk handkerchief round his head in lieu 
thereof. In obedience to his impatiently repeated 
summons, the others came to the table, and after a 
dispute as to what game they should play, began draw- 
ing for places in the new game of Quadrille, which 
all but his Lordship preferred to the true Ombre, as 
requiring fewer wits in the player. When the dealer 
and the partners, the stakes and the number of tours , 
were determined, “’Tis you and I, Van,” said his 
Lordship, “so don’t let’s have any of your Beast- 
ings.” 

Which was as much as to say, ‘ ‘ Don’t let us have 
any of your mistakes. ” 

The Colonel flushed a bright pink, and reached a 
card to mark the tours with before he answered. 

“Pooh ! my Lord, you think my play ruined by 
the ladies, but I warrant my ruin is of another guess 
fashion. The chattering baggages know neither 
mercy nor honour, and when they have luck, love to 
call a king.” 

Expression of reprobation passed round the table, 
though the Colonel himself was notorious for playing 
this risky and selfish game, by which the player 
breaks partnership and plays for his own hand. Lord 
Mordaunt and Vanhomrigh were formidable oppo- 
nents for the two other young men, and the game now 
began in earnest, all attempts at talk being sternly 
checked by the host. 

Every face at the table wore a look of intense and 
more or less ignoble concentration. Lord Mordaunt’s 
clear-cut features showed themselves to the spectator 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGH. 


73 

at the fire, now profile, now three-quarters, against 
the flame of a wax-candle beyond, stripped of their 
usual expression of haughty indifference as entirely 
as of their shadowing curls, and sharpened by at- 
tentive anxiety. The drooping lids were lifted from 
the dark eyes, the fine lips lengthened and straight- 
ened by the clench of the jaw, and the whole face 
looked older by ten years and strangely mean, in 
spite of the beauty of its outline. There was a cold, 
keen eagerness about it, a nameless something, as 
though some devil of remorseless egoism, usually 
lurking in the shadow and mystery of the human 
heart, had suddenly and shamelessly stepped into the 
light. Francis, surveying his new-found brother 
with a critical eye, smiled in scorn of womankind, 
when he thought of the praises that Mrs. Vanhomrigh, 
the looks and blushes that Molly lavished on this 
bac^-hearted young man. Yet, alas ! their mistake 
was more worthy of pity than of scorn. The world 
provides the regulation domino and mask for every 
frequenter of its masquerade, and it is less often the 
wise than the ill-natured who are swift to divine ugly 
shapes behind them. 

At first the game went, as might have been ex- 
pected, in favour of the two more experienced players, 
but the others took their losses with good temper, if 
not cheerfuness. Against luck, however, no skill can 
stand. When it came to Mordaunt’s turn to be the 
Ombre, or player, he surveyed his hand with a glance 
as keen and swift as that with which his father Would 
have reviewed a regiment of recruits, and cried ‘ ‘ Pass ” 
immediately. When it came round to the Colonel 
again, they lost Codilla 

“I’ll trouble you not to draw my Basto next tour 
with your cursed Manille,” observed his partner in a 
voice as sharp and cold as a steel knife-edge. 

The next tour found the Matadors yet more against 
them, and they lost heavily. Raikes and Ponsonby, 
heaping up the mils and fishes which marked the 
score, dared scarcely indulge their satisfaction even 
by looks, so black the silence that brooded over the 
table, broken only by an occasional oath from Mor- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


74 

daunt at his cards or at his partner. At length 
Ponsonby, putting down his card, cried “ Gano ” to 
his partner, as a request to him not to take it. Mor- 
daunt dashed his cards on to the table, and shooting 
out his right arm suddenly, presented the finger like 
a pistol at Ponsonby’s breast, 

“ Beasted, Peter!” he exclaimed, with a short 
laugh. 

Peter also dashed down his cards and swore in- 
dignantly. On this there arose a clamour as great 
as can be made by four gentlemen all talking to- 
gether, and each bent on making his imprecations, 
if not his arguments, audible. For Quadrille being 
yet in its infancy, the rule which forbade the call 
for Gano was not fully established, and the two 
winners were by no means willing to reduce their 
winnings by paying the fine demanded. 

While the rest of the company were thus intent 
upon their own affairs, Francis Earle left the room 
and the house unobserved. 


CHAPTER V> 

Outside the night was cool and exquisitely silent, 
for there was no sound, except that of the faint 
breeze sighing through the treetops. Below them it 
was pitch dark, as the moon had gone behind a cloud, 
and the foliage was still very thick. A long avenue 
of beeches ran across the fields to the house, and 
down this Francis began to make his way, in ac- 
cordance with the directions given him when he had 
been intended to join the coach. But he experienced 
the usual difficulty in walking straight in the dark, 
and as he knocked his hat off against a branch, and 
first one shoulder and then the other against the 
boles of the trees, and tripped and strayed among the 
brambles and thorn bushes that had been allowed to 
encroach on the avenue, he felt not indeed a tempta- 
tion to return, but exceeding wrath against his inani- 
mate and invisible foes, and something like despair of 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


75 

ever reaching his destination. He would probably 
have wandered yet longer in this wilderness, and 
hopelessly missed the high-road, had it not been 
for a fortunate accident. A bonfire of weeds and 
the stubbed-up roots of trees near the path hav- 
ing smouldered itself hollow, the top fell in just 
as Francis passed, and a red genial tongue of flame 
shot up into the darkness. There was something 
at once strange and friendly in the fire, crackling 
and glowing through the night, alone in the deserted 
field. It lighted up a footpath that crossed the avenue 
and a stile in the hedge, which he must otherwise 
have overlooked, but which he recognised as his 
right way. On the open path it was not so dark 
as under the trees, and the ripples of light at the edge 
of the <jun cloud that hid the moon were broadening 
and brightening. As he crossed another stile at the 
further end of the way, she swam out again into the 
clear sky, and he saw the white high-road stretch- 
ing left and right between the dark lines of its hedges. 
He turned in the direction, not of Windsor, but of 
London, with the regular determined tramp of a man 
settling down to work, for he had more than twenty 
miles to cover before morning. He did not know 
the country, but he felt sure that the high-road must 
bring him right eventually. In the first village street 
he came to, though the other houses were all dark, 
a stream of light came from the ale-house door, 
and he asked if this were the coach-road to London. 
The landlord nodded an answer, and he and one or 
two belated men round the door stared with much 
solemnity and suspicion at the lonely pedestrian, and 
would have questioned him in their turn had he not 
disappeared again into the darkness before they could 
arrive at articulation. 

He met no other foot-passengers and only one 
post-chaise passed him, driving very quickly. In 
the day-time it was a busy road, for besides the scat- 
tered towns and villages upon it, he passed the gates 
of large villas, which the wealthier merchants and 
many of the nobility preferred as summer residences 
to country places at a distance from London. But 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


76 

now these dark and silent houses, withdrawn among 
their gardens and trees, seemed rather to emphasise 
than to lessen the loneliness of the way. As he 
passed the scattered groups of thorns on Hounslow 
Heath he kept his hand on his sword, but if any high- 
waymen were lurking there, so insignificant a prey 
did not tempt them. Below him the river flats by 
Hammersmith lay shimmering white with mist in the 
moonlight. Before he reached them the moon was 
gone, but from time to time the roll of a market cart, 
and the gleam of its sleepy lantern came to him cheer- 
fully through the darkness. 

He entered London when the oil lamps in the streets 
were burning even paler than before in the cheerless 
dawn. In St. James’ Street no one was yet stirring, 
and it was only a prolonged volley of knocks that at 
length brought Mrs. Ann, the Vanhomrighs’ own 
woman, to the door. The old waiting-maid threw 
up her hands in horror at the apparition of Francis, 
thinking he brought ill-news of her ladies. She was 
greatly relieved at finding that it was his own busi- 
ness that brought him to town, and inclined to pity 
and make much of him. He certainly looked way- 
worn, and felt tired when he sat down, but not sleepy. 
On the contrary, he had a curious feeling as though 
something were strained right across his brain, and 
he would never be able to close his eyes again. He 
dressed himself afresh with consideration, not indeed 
achieving an appearance tjiat would have made the 
Colonel proud to acknowledge him, but freeing him- 
self for the moment from the reproach of a scholarly 
slovenliness of dress. Then he took down from the 
wall a small Spanish sword which was his oldest 
possession. Something on the embroidered scabbard 
or belt to which it was attached had caught his 
childish fancy, and as he had not been able to draw 
it, he had been allowed to keep it as a cherished toy. 
He then sat down by. a cheerful fire which Mrs. Ann 
had lighted, drank the dish of chocolate she brought 
him, and read a book till a quarter to eight o’clock, 
when he went out and turned across St. James' Park 
in the direction of Peterborough House. On his way 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGH. 


77 

he arranged what he should say when he got there ; 
for even twice his years teach few of us the futility 
of such one-sided plans of conversation, where no al- 
lowance is made for the winds and tides of our own 
immediate impressions, still less for the independent 
and constraining force of another mind. He marched 
stoutly on till he came in sight of the big door with 
the two shallow steps before it and the oil-lamps on 
each side. Then for the first time he realised to how 
audacious a course he was about to commit himself, 
and not so much hesitated as encouraged himself, 
by weighing the risk and the possible loss and gain 
resulting from it. He could but lose the slender al- 
lowance which eked out his Bible-clerkship at All 
Souls, and the chance of a chaplaincy or a living, 
neither of which he would care to accept. On the 
other hand, there was the irrepressible youthful hope 
that this famous father, himself so ambitious and so 
restless, might have more sympathy with the rest- 
lessness and ambition of his son than the dry little 
lawyer at Windsor. Should his lordship fly into a 
rage, Francis would but have to retire, and he im- 
agined himself retiring discreetly under cover of a 
smart repartee. He knocked at the door, and a large 
butler in a large peruke, who regarded him with 
awe-inspiring surprise, informed him, as he ex- 
pected, that Lord Peterborough was shortly leaving 
for Madrid, and would see no one except on special 
business. But he stepped past the butler into the 
flagged hall with an easy confidence which sent that 
individual's ideas, that like his majestic frame usually 
moved with measured dignity, jostling each other in 
hopeless confusion. 

“His lordship will see me” said the unknown 
and apparently insignificant person, and would not 
vouchsafe his name. 

Now Lord Peterborough, like some other noble- 
men and politicians in those days, when the suc- 
cession of the House of Hanover seemed daily more 
doubtful, had grown tired of that uncertain seat called 
in modern phraseology “the fence," and was en- 
gaged in getting off it on the Stuart side. Conse- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


78 

quently he received a good many mysterious or 
shabby visitors. 

He was one of those irritable masters who expect 
their servants to know by instinct whom they wish 
and whom they do not wish to see, and the butler 
knew not whether he would incur most wrath by 
admitting, or by sending away, one who might be a 
political emissary of the highest importance or a 
needy tradesman bringing a bill. Meantime, in mere 
confusion of mind he began to mount the stairs, 
closely followed by Francis. On the landing, still 
as far from having arrived at a conclusion as ever, he 
turned and faced his pursuer like a sheep at bay. 

‘‘You must please to tell me your name and bus- 
iness, your Honour, before I can admit you to his 
Lordship/’ he said with attempted firmness. 

“Neither concern you, my good man,” replied 
Francis, shrugging his shoulders with a gentle but 
superior smile ; “you may say, the gentleman from 
Lord Mordaunt.” 

The butler opened a door slowly and wide to give 
himself time to collect his thoughts, but not succeed- 
ing in doing so, announced in loud and pompous 
tones from the force of habit, “ My Lord, the gentle- 
man from Lord Mordaunt.” 

“Mordaunt I ” cried a sharp, surprised voice from 
far within the room; then after a pause, “well, let 
him wait.” 

The butler closed the door gradually, looking in a 
doubtful, almost appealing way at Francis, who had 
walked past him and stood in the small ante-chamber 
divided by folding-doors, which were open, from the 
large room beyond. Within he could see the back of 
a man in a neat travelling wig and a military coat, 
seated at a desk and writing fast with one hand, while 
with the other he from time to time conveyed a tea- 
cup or food to his lips. 

Now did Francis begin somewhat to quake, finding 
himself in the very presence of Lord Peterborough, 
though as yet unobserved by him. Here was the 
man of glittering reputation, of whose bold genius 
for war, of whose adventurous feats of daring, he had 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


79 

heard a thousand stirring tales from men who had 
fought in Spain; here was the “ Mordanto,” whose 
cosmopolitan activity had been chronicled in verse 
by Swift himself, whom the Tory party — at the 
Vanhomrighs Tories predominated— lauded to the 
skies as the worthy rival of Marlborough ; the hero of 
a day on whom Time had not yet clearly written 
mene, mene , tekel. Had his new-discovered father 
been a more ordinary individual, Francis would not 
have dreamed of thus claiming him, but a conscious- 
ness of something unusual in his own aims and abilities 
made him instinctively trust this unusual man to 
recognize in him at once no ordinary claimant for 
money or social recognition. This consciousness at 
least buoyed him up till he found himself left there 
to watch the dark curls of Lord Peterborough’s wig 
vibrating, as he could almost have imagined, to the 
quick working of the brain within, and to listen to 
the scratch-scratch of his somewhat unruly quill. The 
quill having become totally unmanageable, his Lord- 
ship pitched it into the fireplace, and turned round 
sharply to reach another from a table behind him. 
Then, to his surprise, for he supposed he was alone, 
he found himself face to face with a small young man, 
who stood with his back against the well-filled book- 
shelf in the ante-room, meeting his Lordship’s eye 
with a look at once earnest and abashed. 

“Well, sir, ’’said Lord Peterborough sharply, “ what 
d’ye want ? ” and added a muttered curse on the 
butler. 

The young man stepped forward and bowed, still 
earnestly regarding him, but did not immediately 
answer. So he answered himself. 

“Ah! the gentleman from Lord Mordaunt, to be 
sure,” and he smiled grimly. “I presume the affec- 
tionate creature sends me his blessing before I sail — 
and would be glad of a thousand pounds."’ 

“Possibly, my Lord,” replied the young man in a 
deliberate if somewhat hesitating manner. “But I 
was not sent by Lord Mordaunt.” 

Lord Peterborough’s restless emaciated fingers 
drummed on the chair-back. 


8o 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“You announced yourself as from my son ! ” 

There was a short pause before Francis answered 
with ingenuousness, rather than boldness — 

“ My Lord, that was a lie ; I don’t usually lie.” 

His Lordship stared at his singular interlocutor, 
and then throwing himself back in his chair, laughed 
silently. But quickly regaining his countenance — 

“Then who the deuce are you?” he asked. 

Francis paused again before replying: “I came 
here to ask your Lordship that. My mother’s name 
was Frances Annesley.” 

Every glimmer of amusement died out of Peter- 
borough’s face. “Ah,” he. said, “I perceive.” 

Then he filliped at some stray grains of sand on 
the document upon which he was engaged, and find- 
ing them still there, took it up and brushed them off. 

“Upon my honour, young gentleman,” he con- 
tinued coldly, without raising his eyes from his task, 
“you have indulged a most idle curiosity. I have 
no objection to gratify it ; but you will get no money 
from me, which is, I suppose, what you want.” 

At these words a change also passed over Francis’ 
manner and expression. 

“ Money ! ” he cried, “ money ! Oh, your Lordship 
may be easy. If you indeed be the man I think, I 
came to inform you that such moneys as you have 
paid towards making a parson of me are paid for 
stark nothing, and if ’tis true, as Mr. Wilson affirms, 
that you will give ’em for that and nothing but that, 
why, I hereby sacrifice my interest in ’em freely to 
your Lordship, and have the honour to wish you a 
good-morning.” 

This was not in the least what he had intended to 
say, but the most meditated stroke of art would 
hardly have been so successful as this unpremedi- 
tated outburst of anger. 

Peterborough looked at him curiously and relaxed 
into something approaching a smile. 

“Foolish boy! ’Tis a handsome offer. Another 
might take advantage of thee. Were it handsomer 
I should do so myself. But let us talk of it, since I 
do not leave for Madrid till dinner-time, and ’’—look- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


8l 


ing at his watch — “ 'tis not yet half after eight. Yet, * 
he added, with a glance of renewed suspicion, “I 
am very likely a fool not to kick you downstairs/' 

Nor would the certainty that the young man was 
his own son have deterred him from doing so, had 
he not begun to feel an amused interest in the crea- 
ture, and to observe in him a strong likeness to him- 
self, and yet more to his late promising son, John. 
He had lost his two eldest sons in one year, and 
though far from a domestic character, he had been 
affected, both in his affections and in his parental 
pride, by the death of the second, a distinguished 
naval officer ; especially as that loss brought him face 
to face with his youngest son, whom heretofore Lady 
Peterborough had been left to spoil at her ease. 

At this direct summons to speak, Francis was silent, 
and his first awe returned upon him, while Peter- 
borough, who seemed never for an instant without 
movement in some part of his face or person, rose 
from the escritoire and went to the fireplace. 

4 ‘Come, come, boy,” he cried impatiently, turning 
the poker round and round in the flame, for there 
was a fire in the grate. “ If you be Mrs. Annesley's 
son, you must have a tongue in your head. Why 
will you not be a parson ? Tis no bad trade for one 
that has wit and knows how to use it.” 

“Say, abuse it, my Lord. To lick a trencher 
better than a lacquey, and spoil a good poem with a 
vile dedication.” 

“Pooh, pooh ! You talk like friend Swift in a fit of 
the spleen,” returned Peterborough, still amused and 
laughing. 

“Dr. Swift would confirm me that ; tis an ill trade 
for one that is ambitious and would be honest.” 

“ But Swift is honest, ay, and imprudentdoo ! ” cried 
Peterborough. “Yet look what his mere wit hath 
got for him.” 

“ Promises,” returned Francis drily. Peterborough, 
being among the very few persons in the secret of 
Swift's unstable position and the obstacles between 
him and promotion, silently congratulated the youth 
on his penetration, not guessing that it was quickened 


82 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


by jealousy. “ But I care not,” Francis continued. 
“ The richest Bishopric in England could not tempt 
me to be a parson.” 

“You are a fool,” returned Peterborough im- 
patiently, moving from the fire, “ but what is that to 
me ? Wilson shall have instructions to continue your 
pittance and let you go your own ways ; though I 
cannot guess what this monstrous ambition of yours 
may be, that leads you to despise a fat fellowship 
and the chance of a fat living.” 

Francis laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, and 
meeting the famous soldier’s eyes with an earnest 
look, “ I know not whether my ambition be mon- 
strous, my Lord,” he said, “but I am sure 'tis great, 
for I aspire to use this sword, that once belonged to 
the hero of Barcelona, in such fashion that the world 
may say I am worthy to be his son, if I am not so.” 

As a diplomatist, and a man of wit and fashion, 
Peterborough had acquired for occasions the cool 
polish of exterior then, perhaps even more than now, 
thought indispensable to the role. But the native 
impulsiveness beneath it, the impulsiveness which at 
once made and marred him as a general and a 
politician, constantly broke through to the surface. 
The frank young homage of this unknown lad with 
the strangely familiar face, at once flattered his vanity 
and touched what remained of his heart. He stepped 
forward and set his hands on Francis’ shoulders. 
Their eyes were on a level, and as they met, Peter- 
borough’s emaciated features, worn with the ceaseless 
pursuit of pleasure and ambition, flushed and soft- 
ened with a smile that made him for a moment look 
like the young man’s brother. 

“ Come,” he said, “ I will trust you with the truth. 
If your mother was really Mrs. Annesley, then you 
are really my son, and methinks the best one I am 
like to find now-a-days.” 

Francis had a tongue nimble enough in many re- 
spects, but in others exceedingly lame. He was sur- 
prised and touched by Lord" Peterborough’s admis- 
sion and the manner of it, but he only looked down, 
coloured, and said nothing. Peterborough drew the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


% 

youth’s sword from the scabbard, and examined it, 
blade and hilt. 

“So thou would’st be a soldier ?” he said, after a 
pause. “Well, ’tis a secret I trust to your discre- 
tion, but I intend landing in the Netherlands on my 
way to Spain. If you are in earnest, I will leave 
you there with a gentleman that shall get you a per- 
mit to serve with the allied troops, though I cannot 
promise you a commission or to see more than the 
end of the game.” 

“My Lord, I am infinitely obliged. At what hour 
shall I attend your Lordship ? ” asked Francis. 

The calmness with which he accepted the sudden 
proposal to leave his native country and assume a 
totally new position in life within the next few hours, 
gave Lord Peterborough extreme satisfaction. 

“Be here at four o’clock,” he said, “bringingno 
more than a portmantel. I hate baggage. You 
shall be equipped for the camp at the Hague. I do 
not promise great things, mind you, but you shall 
have just as much as suffices to give a young man 
credit enough to run into debt. Now farewell. If 
you come not at the hour I shall know you repent — 
and so shall I.” 

He extended his hand to Francis, who kissed it 
respectfully and made his way downstairs, almost 
stunned by the unlooked-for success of his future. 

As to Lord Peterborough, of course as soon as he 
heard the big front door close behind Francis, he 
called himself a fool for thus negligently exposing 
himself to claims and annoyances which he had for 
fifteen years successfully taken precautions to avoid. 
But he was reaching an age when the most active 
and hardened of men occasionally feel the pangs of 
solitariness. His wandering and profligate life had 
long and hopelessly alienated Lady Peterborough’s 
affections from him, and his relations with his surviv- 
ing son were extremely unpleasant. The sincere and 
admiring, but not very profound, liking entertained 
for him by certain literary men was the best thing 
left to him in a life of private and political intrigue 
which, generally speaking, occupied his energies too 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


84 

completely to leave room for anything else. Yet 
from time to time some indication of failing health 
brought before him the chill vision of a solitary old 
age. If he can be said to have loved any woman in 
the course of his life, that woman was Frances An- 
nesley. Cold, unprincipled, and with little beauty, 
she had by her wit and that strange gift of fascina- 
tion which defies analysis, retained her power over 
him for seven years. At the end of that time they 
had had a quarrel, in the course of which he had 
knocked a lighted candle off the table, which, fall- 
ing on her dress, set her on fire and caused her death. 
His heart was not very soft nor his sensibilities very 
keen, but this horrible accident made a real and dis- 
agreeable impression upon him, and he hastened to try 
and efface it. If Mrs. Annesley had been interested 
in her child, she might long before have had him 
well provided for, but the plain sickly boy was an 
object of indifference to her, and when Lord Peter- 
borough shut up the Manor, he instructed Mr. Wil- 
son to make a small allowance for the child’s mainte- 
nance and have him brought up in ignorance of his 
parentage. This he did partly to avoid annoyance, 
and partly to enable him the more completely to for- 
get the episode of Mrs. Annesley. He was now not 
quite sure whether he was glad or sorry the seal of 
secrecy had been broken, in some way as yet unex- 
plained. He said to himself that the youth would 
undoubtedly prove ungrateful, extortionate and the 

cause of infinite annoyance to him, and yet 

Then, as next day must see him through the delicate 
business of tampering with some of Marlborough’s 
officers in the interest of the party, he speedily and 
completely dismissed his personal and family affairs 
from his meditations. 

Francis meantime was hurrying homewards to 
pack the one portmantel permitted him by his pat- 
ron. Mrs. Ann, coming in to find his room strewn 
with the contents of his cupboards, began to scold 
as she had got into the habit of doing in the days 
when her comb used unmercifully to tear through 
his thick hair and her soapy water to squirt into his eye. 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGI*. 


85 

“Lord! Master Francis what a litter you be in, 
surety ! Marry come up ! You make as much 
work in the house in a day as Master Ginckel ’ud 
make in a week — if it wasn’t for his own man ! ” 

When, however, sh6 heard that he was to leave 
home that day and for a foreign country, she left off 
scolding and took the arrangement of his affairs into 
her own hands, packing for him not only the best of 
his own scanty possessions, but various articles be- 
longing to other members of the family. When in 
the course of time these appropriations were discov- 
ered by the owners, there would no doubt be a good 
deal of grumbling; but every one was too much 
accustomed to her system of practical family social- 
ism to seriously resent it. 

Francis, after wandering round her vaguely for 
some time and being strictly forbidden to touch every 
article he offered to hand her, went down to the 
parlour to write a letter to Mrs. Vanhomrigh. He 
was glad Windsor was too far off to admit of his 
getting there and back before the afternoon, as other- 
wise he might have yielded to the temptation to 
see Esther once again betore leaving England. At 
present he was too dazed to be very conscious either 
of pleasure or pain, but he knew that when he re- 
covered himself, his intense satisfaction in his new 
career would only be tempered by his regret at part- 
ing from her. Yet even as regarded Esther, his 
present course was the only promising one. So far 
he knew only too well, she had never regarded him 
in any other light than as a younger brother, but his 
absence, his return in the character of a soldier and 
as he fondly hoped, a* distinguished one, might 
change all that. If Swift should come forward as a 
suitor for her hand, then Francis could not doubt 
that she would under any circumstances be lost to 
him for ever. Something made him hope, and 
almost believe, that this would not happen. 

His farewell letter took him long to write, but it 
was very brief. He was leaving the kindly roof 
which had sheltered his forsaken childhood — leaving 
it for the first time, not temporarily but permanently. 


86 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


He was far from lacking 1 in gratitude and in the piety 
of the hearth, but he had more than his share of that 
self-consciousness which is the dismal inheritance of 
his countrymen, and which makes it so much easier 
for them to express their unatniable than their kindly 
feelings ; especially if the objects of those feelings 
happen to be persons with whom they are familiar. 
Consequently his letter contained little but a cold 
statement that owing to circumstances which he was 
not at liberty to mention, he was leaving England 
without having time to wish Mrs. Vanhomrigh and 
the young ladies good-bye. It concluded with a 
few small jests, an inquiry after the health of the 
party, and his love and duty to Mrs. Vanhomrigh. 
Having sealed the missive and entrusted it to Mrs. 
Ann, he went to bed and to sleep. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“It rains with a crescendo” Swift observed, ab- 
stractedly putting down his pen. 

“His certainly unfortunate for you, sir ” returned 
Essie, looking up from the manuscript in her hand. 

“ How so, miss ? ” asked he. “ Come, this is one 
of your impudent sayings. A pretending brat that 
must needs be rallying like her betters ! Explain 
yourself, Hessinage.” 

“No, no ! ” she said, and mimicking her mentor’s 
voice and manner— “ explanations are of all ballast 
the heaviest; a mere weighingdown of conversation 
to the capacity of the dull” 

“Bratikin ! ” cried he. “ You think to whip me 
with my own tail, as you serve the puppy : but we 
mark you not.” 

He rose from his papers and walked to the window. 

“Lord knows,” he said, “I wish this rain were 
away, for if we could see anything, this fine prospect 
would turn you romantic, and then I should laugh. 
Yes, you are diverting, miss, when you turn romantic.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGII, 


37 

The windows of the small panelled parlour of the 
Prebendary’s lodging where they sat, were among 
those that look out over the treeiops and the Hundred 
Steps to the Thames and Eton, but now there was 
nothing to be seen from them but a grey misty veil 
of fine rain. 

“ And this to one that hath said neither O nor Ah 
to a sunset and a full moon ! Well, Doctor, you may 
think meanly of me, yet I thank God I am not a stag- 
hunting Maid of Honour, with a hat-mark on her 
brow and a laugh like a horse-boy ; I’ve seen one 
named Hyde or some such thing, that I’m sure you’d 
never love.” 

‘ ‘Indeed, miss, you are mistook, for I love the 
creature dearly,” he cried, and Essie laughed teas- 
ingly. 

Now Mrs. Hyde was one of those ladies of quality 
with whom Swift had consented to be on terms of 
friendship, if they would observe his conditions ; 
which were that the first advances should proceed 
from them and be made in due form. She had a fine 
face and figure and abundance of good spirits, which 
her hearty admiration of the great Doctor helped him 
at the time to mistake for wit. But though a satirist 
may have as much vanity as another, he is not so 
long or so easily duped by it, and Swift had soon 
perceived his devoted Mrs. Hyde to be not very dif- 
ferent from the other Maids of Honour, for whom he 
had notoriously no liking ; a discovery the loyalty of 
his nature forbade him to admit, but which Esther 
shrewdly guessed, and it must be confessed, was not 
sorry for. It was inevitable that she should be jealous. 
His power and distinction, which caused him to be 
flattered and sought after, made her part in his life so 
obviously small as compared with his part in her 
own. Then the acceptance of conditions, the calm- 
ness of middle-age, could not but appear coldness, 
when brought into contact with the revolts, the warm 
eagerness, the boundless claims and impossible pro- 
jects which are the fairy gold of youthful friendship. 
These things alone, not to reckon a blinder and 
more fatal element fast intruding upon the domain of 


88 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


friendship, sufficed to make it not disagreeable to her 
when the attentions lavished upon Swift by persons 
of importance failed to please him. 

“The truth is, Hessinage,” he said, “Mrs. Hyde 
hath made her boutade. But no matter — be neither 
moral nor witty over the boutades of others, Hess, for 
I warrant your own, that you are saving up for all 
this time, will be a bad one when it comes/' 

“ When I know what you mean, Doctor, with your 
boutade , I shall know better how to answer you.” 

“ When a horse, that has gone so quiet for a month 
that you have finally concluded him a sober animal, 
jerks out his hinder feet on a sudden, why, you know 
better than I, Mademoiselle, that the French call it 
a boutade. Heaven bless us ! 'Tis what you all do 
sooner or later ; ay, sooner or later, whether 'tis at 
the end of a week, a month, a year or ten years, every 
jade of you makes her boutade and lands us in the 
mud.” 

“Your sex, sir, are truly not guilty oi boutades, for 
you kick so regular we cannot plead surprise, and 
must e’en make a shift to stick on, or take our mud 
with philosophy.” 

“ Why, what fine young fellow hath been playing 
you a scurvy trick, Hess?” asked he. “It cannot 
be Ford, for only t’other day after dinner he drank to 
you under the name of ‘ the Jilt/ ” 

Hester laughed an unembarrassed laugh. 

“Lord! that was a scurvy trick indeed of Mr. 
Ford’s ! Why, the truth is, he hath not bestowed a 
thought on my beaux yeux since this time last year, 
when he first made the acquaintance of Moll’s. Sure’ 
dear sir, I shall never get a husband unless Moll and I 
part company, for so soon as I have gotten myelf one 
poor ewe-lamb of an admirer, in comes this naughty 
miss and whisks him away to swell her train of 
adorers. ” But her countenance betrayed not a shadow 
of annoyance at the abduction or seduction of her 
followers. 

Odsbodikins, this is fine play-acting ! You’d 
have me think you’re not jealous of Moll, when if I 
write her the least smallest love-letter, or so much as 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 89 

call her Brat or Slutikin, you’re ready to tear my eyes 
out, Governor Huff, you know you are.” 

Hester looked down and picked at the tassel of a 
sofa-cushion. 

“ Sure,” she said, “’tis all my fun — but then that’s 
different. The dear creature’s welcome to my ad- 
mirers, but not to — not to ” 

“Your friend. Well, you may be easy.” 

There was a short silence, broken by the entrance 
of a servant. 

“Your Riverence, there’s a fine young- nobleman 
in a yaller chariot and splendid liveries and an um- 
brella and a nigger, wants to know if he may wait on 
the ladies.” 

Then he stepped across to the Doctor, and thrusting 
his head into his master’s wig, whispered something. 

“Shish — shish — shish ! ” cried Swift impatiently, 
shaking himself away. “What d’ye think I can 
make of that, you dog? Stand up and speak out, 
Patrick, and never consider the lady. She’s above 
minding the compliments of a nobleman, or of his 
nigger either.” 

Patrick stood up and looked at Essie with a smile 
half-apologetic, half-ingratiating. 

“ Sure, my Lady, his Lordship wouldn’t be for 
disturbing Madam Vanhomrigh for the world, nor 
wouldn’t take the liberty of asking for Miss Vanhom- 
righ ; ’tis no one at all, at all, but Miss Molly he’ll be 
after troubling to-day.” 

“You may tell his Lordship,” replied Swift, “that 
the ladies are abroad and will not return before din- 
ner-time.” 

So Patrick retired to communicate his answer. 

Swift’s and Esther’s eyes met, and she smiled 
faintly. 

“Fortune and you befriend me to-day,” she said. 
And then, after a pause. “ What can I do, dear sir? 
What can I do to rid my sister of this young rake — for 
I suspect him to be little better than that.” 

Swift shrugged his shoulders: “Rid her of her 
infatuation for him.” 

“And how in Heaven’s name am I to do so?” 


9 ° 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“By means of her reason, Hessinage,” returned 
Swift. “ If you will forgive me for saying so, I think 
well of Molkin. She is yet very young, and she hath 
a greater love for the world and a milder and pleas- 
anter disposition than Governor Huff, which causes her 
to be easily led into follies by them that should keep 
her out of them. But Moll hath an excellent shrewd 
wit, and, did you reason with her enough, might be 
brought to see ’tis mighty ridiculous to buy a pig 
in a poke. She knows stark nothing of this boy, 
except that he has a handsome face and a fine coat, 
and the very rank that dazzles her makes him scarce 
likely to mate with folks of our breeding. Pooh ! 
reason with her, I say.” 

“Reason!” cried Essie in amazement. “Who- 
ever yet found reason strong enough to drive out 
love ? ” 

“ I have found it so,” replied Swift sternly. 
“Others would, if they did but believe it possible, 
but they resign themselves to suffer from this com- 
plaint because they fancy there’s no remedy for it. 
Do you think that I am more insensible than another 
man to the charms of beauty, of wit, of sense and 
virtue? No ; there was a time, the time when I first 
found all these united in the person of one young 
woman, when I felt as great an inclination as any to 
play the lover and the fool ; but my reason told me 
that, with my narrow means, such as would indeed 
be bare beggary for a wife and family, and with my 
uneasy temper and very ill health, marriage was not 
for me, and I resolved to rest content with being her 
friend. ’Tis a resolution I applaud as often as I see 
a pair of lovers that have been a twelvemonth 
married, for it allows me to suppose she and I had 
been more faithful in our fondness, had we permitted 
ourselves to love. But come, bratikins, I talk of 
myself, when I meant but to persuade you that the 
strength of this passion is grossly exaggerated, Tis 
like some monster of your favourite romances that 
fades to air in the grasp of the bold champion that 
grapples with it.” 

Esther had listened with a changing colour and 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


9 1 

questioning eyes. Who, ah, who was the woman he 
could have loved under a more fortunate star? Deep 
in her heart a siren voice whispered Esther Vanhom- 
righ. 

Returning with an effort to her former pre-occupa- 
tion, as he ended — 

“ It may be as you say,” she returned, “ but where 
is the power to make her grapple with it?” Then, 
“Alas! how can I talk over my sister's unhappy 
infatuation even with you, sir ? I do very wrong. 
But 'tis my excuse that, as you know well, our poor 
fond mamma hath a younger head on her shoulders 
than any of us, and thinks no harm of the matter, 
and when I am troubled about it, to whom should I 
turn but to the best, the wisest friend that ever 
woman found? Yet I doubt I do wrong. You must 
forgive me, though Moll would not.” 

She spoke quietly, but her companion, familiar with 
her every gesture and expression, divined there was 
trouble beneath the exterior calm of her demeanour, 
and his perception of that touched the deep vein of 
tenderness, of womanly sympathy in him, that made 
him dear to women. The more dear, perhaps, because 
the tenderness lay below, or was mingled with, much 
apparent and some real cynicism, and a bitterness 
and scorn of men which were like his power of 
sympathy, the outcome of a hyper-sensitive nature. 
Now when he saw that Esther was in trouble, he sat 
down by her and took her hand gently, as an elder 
brother might have done. 

“ Never blame yourself for that, Hesskin,” he said. 
“What's told to me is dropped down the castle well. 
You have on your young shoulders the cares without 
the authority of women twice your age, and 'tis no 
wonder you turn somewhere for counsel, little Hess- 
kinage. As for Molly, the slut, you know I love her 
very well, and am not the fool of the vulgar opinion 
which condemns the betrayal of an innocent senti- 
ment more than it winks at the harbouring of a 
guilty one. No ; virtuous breasts, as I have told you 
a thousand times, need never fear to show what’s in 
'em. I am as vexed as you that Molkin has cast 3 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


92 

favourable eye on this puppy, but if she were more 
secret in the matter, I should be more apt to suspect 
evil than now, when, as she does not conceal her 
preference, I’m convinced there’s nothing ill in it but 
the object.” 

‘‘You speak comfortable words,” said Esther; 
“yet Shakespeare says somewhere ’tis no wise thing 
for the best of hearts to be worn on the sleeve — the 
daws will peck at it.” 

“Fudge, child!” replied Swift, patting her hand 
rather hard before he dropped it. “You think too 
much of your old plays, and they’re better, truly, 
than modern romances, yet by no means the best 
books for a young gentlewoman’s reading. When 
the day comes that you have such a heart under your 
kerchief as you are ashamed to take out and pin to 
your elbow-ruffles for my inspection — why, on that 
day you may take Master Shakespeare for your friend 
instead of the Doctor. Now, since you are so pretend- 
ing as to quote poetry, I shall read you out this man- 
uscript of Mr. Pope’s, which is to my mind the 
smoothest verse yet writ in our language.” 

Esther gave him up the manuscript, which was that 
of a poem entitled “ Windsor Forest,” and in a fine, 
well-modulated voice Swift began to read : — 

“Thy forest, Windsor ! and thy green retreats, 

At once the monarch’s and the muse’s seats, 

Invite my lays.” 

So he continued for sixty-eight lines, which, treat- 
ing of Lady Granville, Eden, Olympus, Pan, Flora, 
Queen Anne, and William the Conqueror, followed 
each other with all the regularity and pompous inanity 
of a string of g eese. At the sixty-eighth line he paused 
and repeated — 

“ The hollow winds through naked temples roar.” 

“ What think you of that line ? ” he asked. “ To 
my mind the sound answers marvellously to the 
sense.” 

Esther gave a guilty start, and murmured some 
reply which committed her to nothing. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


93 

“Your wits are gone wool-gathering,” he said 
sharply. 4 ‘You are wont to be a better listener. 
Come, now, a penny for your thoughts.” 

She blushed deeply. 

“Mr. Pope’s are so much finer,” she answered. 

‘ ‘ Pray, Doctor, continue and read me that line again. 
’Twas but in a moment of inattention it slipped me.” 

“A goodly moment!” grumbled Swift. “I’ll 
wager you have heard nought since Mr. Pope made 
his fine bow to Granville in the opening. No', you 
shall read it yourself, Miss Essie, though you can no 
more read than a magpie.” 

This last accusation was unfair. Essie was his 
own pupil, and one with natural gifts. As she read 
the empty monotonous lines took meaning and sweet- 
ness from her intonation and voice, and though from 
time to time her master snatched the manuscript from 
her hand to correct her rendering of some pet 
passage of his, he could not quite conceal his satis- 
faction in her performance. Just as she had begun 
the invocation to the Thames, a sound of feet and 
voices was heard on the staircase, and in another 
minute Mrs. Vanhomrigh entered, followed by Molly, 
Mr. Lewis, and a young man whom Swift greeted 
warmly by the name of Ford. 

“I thought you was to have stayed in town for 
your business all this week, Ford,” he said. 

Mr. Ford made some wordily inadequate excuse 
for his unexpected reappearance, which in fact was 
due to the Yanhomrighs’ visit, and turned the con- 
versation by producing a packet of letters for the 
Doctor which he had picked up for him at the St. 
James’ Coffee House. Swift glanced at the super- 
scription, and laid the packet on the table. 

“Lord, Doctor ! ” cried Madam Van, looking at it, 
“ I always said you was a magician, and here’s the 
proof of it ! You keep a double in Ireland to write 
you all that’s doing there with your very own hand. 
Why, I never thought there was so much news 
in Ulster, Munster, Leinster and Connaught all put 
together as would swell a package to that size,” 

Swift coloured visibly. 


94 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“The writer/’ he replied, after an almost imper- 
ceptible pause, “ was a pupil of mine some twenty- 
years ago, and keeps the trick of my capitals. But 
never mind the letter ; here’s Ford can give us the 
latest news of London, a place which, for my part, 
I value more than fourteen Irelands put together/’ 

“Luckily,” he added to himself, “Ppt.’s hand is 
not obtrusively feminine.” His discomfort at the 
sight of the letter was not altogether due to the 
possible observations of others upon it. Something 
in his own breast, which he called “undue scrupu- 
losity,” had made certain observations to him several 
times in the course of the last year, and several 
times he had completely replied to them. 

“ It is true,” he said, “I no longer feel the same 
necessity to write all my doings to Ppt. I have 
nothing to tell her but politics, politics, politics, for 
which pretty Ppt. cares not a button, and disappoint- 
ments whenever a Bishopric falls in. It is true I am 
not so glad as I was to catch sight of a letter from 
her, stuck up in the little glass window of the St. 
James’. I love her as well as ever, but poor Ppt.’s 
life is dull. I don’t believe she has got two new 
acquaintances in Dublin since I left, and if she had, 
confound ’em, I shouldn’t care to hear of ’em. The 
diverting witch can get you a jest out of a bluebottle 
fly when you are in her company, but her pen is 
none so witty as her tongue, and I am tired of hear- 
ing that the Dean and Stoyte and Walls are at piquet 
as usual with her, and I know Goody Walls has a 
baby once a year, and don’t care to hear who stands 
godfather, and who eat the christening cake.” 

To other observations of his spiritual foe he would 
reply — 

“Yes, silly Ppt. would be jealous if she knew. 
Women are foolish, unreasonable creatures, and 
were she my wife, I should be forced to tell her 
what does not concern her and submit to her ca- 
prices or live in misery. But I am not even her lover, 
still less Hessinage’s. A man may not have more than 
one wife, but he may surely have as many as two 
friends. And ’tis my weakness that I cannot be con- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


95 

tent without a woman about me. I know not how 
it is but there’s something too much of my mother 
in my composition. I am glad the world does not 
suspect it. Be sure when I have charming Ppt. 
again, I shall want no other.” 

And who was this charming Ppt, whose letter lay 
there unopened on the table, while Esther Vanhomrigh 
at Swift’s command read out Mr. Pope’s poem to the 
assembled company ? What pet name lurked in the 
shelter of that hieroglyph is only divined, not known, 
by those who now share with her the contents of 
those private packages that for so long had reached 
her eager hands once a fortnight, and of late had been 
exchanged for rarer and less detailed letters. But on 
the outside of them is written legibly the name of 
Mrs. Esther Johnson. By this time she was expect- 
ing another, and it was not even on its way to her. 
The ioth of September was a rainy day in Dublin as 
well as at Windsor. When the evening began to fall 
it left off raining, but the faint yellow reflection of an 
invisible sunset in the puddles and gutters of the 
muddy street did nothing to enhance its cheerfulness. 
Mrs. Johnson was by no means of a moody or 
querulous disposition, but it was unquestionably 
dull in the little panelled parlour, with no companion 
but Dingley, who was dozing over her darning. It 
was chilly too. Dingley was always exceedingly put 
out if a fire was lighted before the exact middle of 
September. As she could quote Dr. Swift as being 
of her mind on the subject, because certain little 
rules of this nature are desirable to restrain us from 
luxury, Mrs. Johnson commonly gave in to her pre- 
judice. She sat idly in the window-seat, not for 
want of the will to employ herself, but because her 
eyes had to be spared. The large lustrous brown 
eyes were from time to time troublesome to their 
owner, and the inactivity their weakness imposed 
on one of her active temperament did more to impair 
her temper and spirits than a serious misfortune 
could have done. In the street life was not eventful. 
A posse of bare-legged ragged children pattered by 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


96 

through the dirt, and a strong-lunged pedlar- woman 
made the street ring with “ Gentlemen’s gloves ! 
Good Worcester gloves ! Four shillings the pair ! ” 
The pedlar paused under the window, and held up a 
pair of gloves temptingly, with wreathed smiles. Mrs. 
Johnson shook her pretty head — what use had she 
for gentlemen’s gloves ? — and retreated into the room. 

“ Dingley ! ” she cried sharply, “Dingley, you are 
asleep.” 

Dingley sat up very straight, and stuck her needle 
into her finger. “ Asleep ? ” she repeated, “I swear 
I was nothing of the kind.” 

“Oh, you’re like the parrot that learned to swear 
when it was young, and couldn’t forget it,” returned 
Esther Johnson, alluding to the frequency with which 
she had heard this asseveration. 

But Dingley continued talking, unconscious of the 
sarcasm : 

“ Lord knows I often wish I could take forty winks 
as some folks can, being such a bad sleeper. All 
our family are such bad sleepers, but the others do 
get their forty winks, while I can’t close my eyes, 
when. once I’m up. Yeti want it more than any, 
for I’m' sure last night I heard every clock strike.” 

“ I wonder you could hear ’em,” replied Mrs. 
Esther. “I couldn’t — you was snoring too loud.” 

Now it is well known that to be accused of 
snoring rouses ire in the meekest bosom, and Mrs. 
Dingley’s was not especially meek. 

“Lord ha’ mercy ! ” she cried, “ was ever such a 
thing heard? Snoring? Me? Highty-tighty ! miss, 
I’d have you to know the Reverend Dingley, that was 
my husband half a dozen years, never once heard 
me snore.” 

“No,” returned Esther, with a mischievous laugh, 
“ they never do, the husbands. They’re afraid to, 
poor creatures ; they’ll be damned for perjury before 
they’ll venture it.” 

Mrs. Dingley bridled in silent indignation before 
. she replied, 

“Mrs. Johnson, I’d h^ve you to know your 
language is most unbecoming. Fie, miss ! An 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


97 

unmarried woman to talk so familiarly about hus- 
bands ! You'd have some right to speak, if you’d 
taken one when you’d got the chance.” 

“Such a chance, Dingley ! Sure you yourself 
thought at the time I might do better, and I think so 
still.” 

Mrs. Dingley shook her head dubiously. The 
little tiff between her and her companion had blown 
over as quickly as it had come on, for both were 
irritable rather than bad-tempered. 

“’Tis true, Miss Hetty,” she said, “I made sure 
you’d get a match to your liking before many months 
were over. But there ! Things have turned out 
very unlucky, and the chance is gone now. Yet I 
couldn’t but think of it when I met Tisdall at the 
Stoytes t’other day, looking quite like a gentleman in 
a new gown and bands, and Mrs. Tisdall as happy 
as a queen, with a fine boy just fifteen months old 
and another expected.” 

“ For shame, Dingley ! ” returned Hetty. “You 
shouldn’t wish I’d robbed the poor lady of her happi- 
ness. ’Twould have been like the old tale of the 
dog in the manger. Fancy being happy to have 
one child like Tisdall and to be threatened with 
another ! ” 

“True, the boy did take after his father,” said 
Dingley, “ yet I tell you, my dear, ’twas a fine boy 
all the same.” 

“ Of course,” replied Esther, “I knew it. Tisdall 
must have been a fine boy at fifteen months, with his 
bouncing cheeks and goggle blue eyes. I shoud 
have hated Tisdall at fifteen months. His feet ! O 
do you remember his feet, Dingley, and how Pdfr. 
used to laugh at ’em ? ” 

“Sure, Swift was always pleased enough to laugh 
at Tisdall, that I know.” 

“ But, Dingley, dear Dingley, don’t you remember 
when he came courting that Good Friday, dressed 
up so smart except for his feet, and they was in great 
old brown bulging shoes, for all the world like a 
couple of hot cross buns ? Lord, how Pdfr. laughed 
when I told him ! ” 


7 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGH. 


98 

“ How silly you talk, Hetty ! ’Twas well enough 
when you was a girl to think your lover must be a 
beauty, but a woman of your age ought to have 
greater sense than to suppose a man’s looks are here 
or there when he’s your husband. Sure the Rever- 
end Dingley was as the Lord made him, and I never 
gave his looks a thought from the time we left the 
church door. I own when we was walking down 
the church together, and I saw my Aunt Dawson 
whispering to my cousin Tibbs, I felt afraid lest they 
should be passing remarks on his shape ; but then 
’twas but natural they should be spiteful on account 
of the family quarrel about the jewels, my grand- 
mother’s jewels that was lost in the ” 

“Oh, yes, I know all that,” put in Hetty hastily, 
for she had heard the impending anecdote but too 
often already. “But don’t tease, DD. ’Tis silly to 
fancy every single woman pining for a husband. 
Silly — silly, I say.” 

Mrs. Dingley could have replied something 
as to the different view of matrimony Mrs. 
Johnson would have taken, if the Reverend Doc- 
tor, who had come forward so honourably three 
years ago, had been another than Dr. Tisdall. 
But in spite of his absence, fear of Swift more or 
less restrained her loquacity in speaking of him to 
Esther. She contented herself with saying, “ Lord, 
my dear, where’s the harm if they do ? ’Tis but nature,” 
and would have proceeded to relate in her low, 
quick, monotonous voice a series of totally uninter- 
esting anecdotes, concerning the marriages of pro- 
fessed spinsters of her acquaintance, if Mrs. Johnson 
had not cut her short with : “’Tis in the nature of 
our sex to be foolish, that I know well, but one that 
hath had the advantage to be educated by Dr. Swift 
should be above some female weaknesses. I trust, 
though a female, I have sense enough to see that a par- 
cel of brats would scarce afford pleasure to a woman 
who detests ’em ; nor would they be made more en- 
durable by the addition of a self-important ass of a 
husband. As to love/ ’tis the silliest, tiresomest 
passion in the world, and the aptest to end in peevish- 
ness and wrangling. A woman who has had the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


99 

happiness to possess the best of friends these twenty 
years, knows better than to desire so worthless a 
thing as a lover.” 

“Marry come up, Hetty!” cried Mrs. Dingley, 
who, though she had heard these sentiments periodi- 
cally for years, had never recovered her surprise and 
indignation at them. “You’re a strange girl — and 
Swift too, what a strange man ! There’s quite a 
couple of you.” 

She would have liked, but feared, to add that Esther 
at any rate would have found some advantages in 
their being made a couple in a matrimonial sense, as 
a husband could not easily have betaken himself 
across St. George’s Channel for an indefinite period, 
and left his wife behind him in Dublin. Years ago 
she had daily expected Swift to make an offer of 
marriage to Mrs. Johnson, and had repined at the 
probability of its depriving her of their joint home. 
Now she felt personally injured and deceived at the 
offer never having been made. That his insufficient 
means, real or supposed, alone prevented it, she never 
doubted, and she and Mrs. Walls and Mrs. Stoyte had 
long agreed that such caution did not become a 
clergyman ; it argued a want of trust in Providence. 
If, when the long and vainly expected preferment at 
last came, Swift was in the same mind as when he 
left Dublin, they all felt sure that he would return and 
marry Mrs. Johnson. The question was, would he 
after so long an absence — no one could as yet put a 
definite term to it— after having entered as an admired 
and honoured guest the most distinguished circles in 
London, after having won fame by his pen and 
favour by his social qualities, would he be content to 
return to Esther Johnson ? Beautiful she was and 
witty, but after all only the daughter of Sir William 
Temple’s steward. Swift’s old Dublin acquaintances 
knew well that though he never spoke of it, he never 
forgot his birth was gentle, and that in spite of his 
practical benevolence to his sister Mrs. Fenton, he re- 
sented her husband’s plebeian person and calling as 
much as his bad character. He who trampled on 
nobles and treated his social inferiors with punctili- 


IOO 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


ous courtesy, would not for a coronet have been sup- 
posed the born equal of those inferiors. His enemies 
in the Temple family knew well how to mortify him 
when they set it about that he had occupied a menial 
position in the household at Moor Park. It was a 
sufficient humiliation to his haughty nature to remem- 
ber that he had occupied a dependent one, and had 
trembled at a master's frown. He remained grateful 
to the memory of that severe master ; but he liked to 
reflect that he was now a more influential political 
personage than Sir William had been in his most self- 
important days. By marrying Mrs. Esther Johnson 
he would confirm the calumnies of the Temples, for 
her mother was still a sort of housekeeper to Sir 
William's sister, Lady Gifford. Esther herself had 
while a young child, been given a special position at 
Moor Park. Sir William’s honoured lady had spent 
many pleasant hours at play with the little maid, 
whose baby beauty and activity had triumphed over 
the disadvantages of a tight linen cap and a long 
dress. After her ladyship's death the recollection of 
this would alone have recommended the child to Sir 
William, had not her native grace and charm been 
enough to do so. When Swift arrived at Moor Park, 
a young man of twenty, Esther was six years old and 
the pet of the household. When Sir William had sent 
for the new secretary after dinner, he was too ner- 
vous to notice at the time, but afterwards remembered, 
a little black-eyed girl who stood at the great man's 
elbow cracking nuts for him by dint of vast exer- 
tions, and occasionally receiving a sip of Malaga as 
a reward. When the recollection of Dorothy, Lady 
Temple, had somewhat faded from the memory of 
the household, the servants of Moor Park invented a 
legend which accounted for the partiality of their 
master for little Miss Hetty, by supposing her to be 
more nearly related to him than he cared to acknow- 
ledge ; his will, which secured to her a small inde- 
pendence, gave some colour to the invention. Such 
was the origin of Esther Johnson, and the explana- 
tion of much that was anomalous in her position. 
She had a mother and a sister living, but her social 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH. 


IOI 


education had made it difficult for her to share her 
life with them, even had her means permitted her to 
support them. She continued on affectionate terms 
with them, but after Sir William’s death she joined 
her small income to that of Mrs. Dingley, and set up 
house with her. It had needed little persuasion on 
Swift’s part to induce them to leave Farnham for 
Dublin, on the plea that money bore a higher interest 
in Ireland than in England, and they had now passed 
twelve years in that country, sometimes at Trim, 
sometimes in Dublin. When Swift had left Ireland 
some two years before, as an envoy from the Irish 
clergy to the Queen’s Government, it was thought 
that his absence would be short ; but when his cause 
was won, and those for whom he had won it treated 
him neither with gratitude nor honour, while in Lon- 
don the leaders of the Tory party were bidding 
eagerly for his support, he was easily persuaded to 
remain there. With St. John and Harley and Mrs. 
Masham, all honestly anxious to serve him, it seemed 
inevitable that he should rise high in the Church, and 
that before long. The one obstacle to his promotion 
was the Queen’s prejudice against him. The Arch- 
bishop of York had impressed upon her Majesty that 
Dr. Swift’s “Tale of a Tub ” proved him little better 
than an infidel, which indeed his Grace had always 
suspected him of being. Her favourite, the Duchess 
of Somerset, had implored her with tears not to pro- 
mote so remorseless a foe of the fair petitioner’s. 
Queen Anne, who was determined since her escape 
from the tyranny of the Marlboroughs to show her 
Ministers from time to time she had a will of her own, 
selected the point of Dr. Swift’s promotion as a fitting 
one on which to oppose them. It was sufficiently 
simple and unimportant to admit of her doing so, 
without any undue strain on her feeble intellectual 
and moral faculties. Meantime Swift, ignorant of 
this real opponent, lingered on in London, pamph- 
leteering for, dining with, domineering over the most 
powerful men in the kingdom, and able to obtain 
favours for everybody except himself. Sometimes 
in his letters he talked of retiring in disgust to his 


102 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


canals and his fruit-trees at his vicarage of Laracor. 
He talked of it, but he never came. 

“'Tis a long time, ain't it, since we got a packet 
from London? "said Dingley, after an interval of 
silence. Mrs. Johnson was staring at the grate, so 
black and cheerless it looked as though it never could 
have been or be again a thing of warmth and cheer- 
fulness. 

“ No longer than I should expect," she answered 
sharply. “He told us not to look for journals while 
State matters were so heavy upon him." 

And she shivered a little as she spoke, for the night 
was certainly cold. 


CHAPTER VII. 

In after years when Swift proposed, though he prob- 
ably never seriously intended, to make additions to 
his story of “Cadenus and Vanessa," he mentioned 
“The Windsor Expedition," or “The Indisposition 
at Windsor," as an incident not to be omitted. The 
weeks which Swift and Esther Vanhomrigh had spent 
at Kensington in the summer of 1 71 1 had also marked 
a stage in the advance of their intimacy. Esther had 
gone thither on a visit to an invalid friend, and Swift, 
in search of country air and lodgings, had been noth- 
ing loth to take some rooms within easy reach of her 
temporary home. He had a fancy for educating 
ladies, which was singular perhaps, but praiseworthy, 
at a time when most of those he met in the finest so- 
ciety read or wrote worse than a modern maid-of-all- 
work ; evening after evening that summer had he 
brought his book into the parlour, where Esther's 
friend lay on her couch and she herself was sitting by 
her, book in hand, or preparing against his probable 
coming the fragrant coffee which his soul loved. The 
long softly-draped figure and pale intelligent face of 
the invalid, the window beyond her opening on the 
purple night and the silent masses of the Kensington 
trees, the big moths floating in at it and booming and 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


103 

banging against the candles — there was not a detail 
of the scene which did not vividly return to Esther’s 
mind ten years after, when Swift bade her remember 
“The Sick Lady at Kensington.” These evenings 
and the semi-accidental meetings of a morning in the 
Gardens, alone or behind the sick lady’s chair, gave 
Swift and Esther a feeling of special intimacy with 
each other, beyond his general intimacy with the 
family as an old friend of Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s hospi- 
table house. He had always indeed entertained a 
secret partiality for Esther, at first because she bore a 
name he liked to utter, and afterwards for her own 
sake. He called her a “ presuming chit,” when she 
threw herself ardently into the discussion of the poli- 
tics which were then his own absorbing interest, and 
an “ignorant, romantic brat,” when she praised her 
own favourite romance or criticised someone else’s ; 
but for all that he listened. 

Up to the Kensington episode, however, he had 
not regularly read with her or directed her studies. 
He had loved almost as well — more, Esther thought 
— to pun and laugh with Molly, to rally her on her 
“ fellows ” and bring her French sweetmeats, begged 
from Lady Bolingbroke’s store. It was the one point 
on which Esther had ever felt inclined to resent her 
sister’s superior attractions. Since at the age of six- 
teen she had first made his acquaintance, Swift had 
been the particular object of her homage. Perhaps 
Francis was right in accusing her of mingling some 
vanity with her preference for distinguished wit. 
Nemesis does not often smite totally unprovoked ; it 
is in the disproportionate weight of her punishments, 
not in the innocence of the victims, that her injustice 
is shown. On wet days or when he had nothing else 
to do, as he was careful to tell Mrs. Johnson, Swift 
had long been in the habit of dropping in to dinner 
with Madame Van, and spending hours either in the 
front parlour with the smart and the witty people who 
somehow affected the ladies’ society, or in the “slut- 
tery,” as he nicknamed the back-parlour, over coffee 
and oranges with them alone. As often as not he 
mentioned his visits to the house in his Journals to 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGII. 


I 04 

Mrs. Johnson, but no one reading those brief allu- 
sions of his would guess that the parlour where 
he represented himself as yawning away his time 
he knew not why, was called by him in a letter to 
another, “the happiest place in the world. ” 

On his return from Windsor with the completed 
History of the Peace of Utrecht in his portmanteau, the 
readings were resumed. Molly assisted at them less 
frequently than before. The two sisters’ paths in life 
showed ominous signs of separating. Up till now 
their tastes and pursuits had not been fundamentally 
different ; each had liked reading, dancing and com- 
pany in her different degree, though in the matter of 
company Esther had always been fastidious. But 
Molly’s enjoying temperament and universal popu- 
larity were leading her more and more into a world 
that was merely gay and fine, while Esther grew 
more and more impatient of any society, except that 
in which she could at least talk of matters in which 
her master was interested. She asked no better 
amusement than to sit on a stool by the fire with her 
elbows on her knees, reading Rollin’s History of the 
Ancients , or Mr. Dry den’s translation of Virgil’ s AEneid. 
Swift’s lessons she was able to return in kind, for 
having been educated at a school kept by a French 
lady in the neighbourhood of London, and having 
also spent some months in Paris, her French was very 
superior to that of most other young ladies who as- 
pired to a knowledge of that language. It annoyed 
the Doctor to be unable to join in or even follow the 
conversation at Bolingbroke’s, when some of his 
host’s many foreign acquaintances were among the 
guests. In his anxiety to improve his knowledge of 
the language, he even read with Esther a consider- 
able portion of Le Grand Cyrus, though no one had 
less patience than he with the still fashionable French 
romance. 

It was half after eight o’clock one evening in the 
February following the Windsor expedition, when 
Esther Vanhomrigh was just lifting the coffee-pot off 
the fire in the back-parlour, that a chairman’s loud 
rat-tat-tat sounded at the street-door. She stood lis- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


105 

tening with the coffee-pot in her hand. Presently 
from the wide passage that served as a hall there 
rose the sound of voices, the chairman disputing his 
fare with a customer who was by no means inclined 
to give in to his demands. A flush, a faint smile, not 
of amusement but of expectation, passed over her 
lifted face. Then a well-known heavy step came 
slowly up the stairs and Swift entered unannounced, 
for the man-servant was absent with Mrs. Vanhom- 
righ and Molly. He wore his sombre look, and after 
the least possible greeting sat down by the fire and 
stared at it in silence. Essie poured out a cup of coffee 
and placed it by his side. Then she stood with one foot 
on the fender and one hand raised to the high mantel- 
shelf, also staring at the fire. She had abandoned 
the plain cap she had once adopted as likely to 
please his taste for neatness, because he had on the 
contrary censured it as affected. Her thick blonde 
hair fell in curls on her neck, in the graceful fashion 
of the time, and her round neck and arms gleamed 
from the loose black wrapper branched with silver, 
which she had appropriated from her mother’s always 
too abundant supply of half-worn garments. People 
who had met her this winter in the Park or at assem- 
blies had pronounced the eldest Miss Vanhomrigh 
to be grown uncommonly handsome. 

“Drink your coffee, come now, drink your coffee,” 
she said at last imperiously. “That’s the way you 
let it spoil, and then you call it ratsbane— good coffee 
at six and sixpence a pound.” 

Swift took the cup. 

“It may be ratsbane in earnest for all I care, he 
said. “ I’m half poisoned already.” 

“Where do you come from ? ” she asked. “ How 
late you are, when you told me you would be early ! 

I had almost given up hopes of you.” 

“ From Lord Treasurer’s,” he replied shortly, 
drinking his coffee. 

“Had he no news ?” she questioned. “Are the 
Bishoprics filled up ? Who will be Dean of Wells ? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders. ’ 

“Ask the town-crier. He will know before I. 
My grann’am used to say : — 


106 ESTHER VANHOMRTGH. 

“ ‘ More of your lining 

And less of your dining.’ ” 

“ Oh, ’tis shameful ! Shameful ! ” she cried. “ Tis 
well I don’t know either Lord Treasurer or the Sec- 
retary, for if I did I should never contain myself. 
Truly such ingratitude, such base, base ingratitude, 
is enough to make splenetics of us all.” 

The cloud on Swift’s brow lightened ; he looked up 
half arch, half tender. It was not in nature to feel 
otherwise than gratified when the bitterness and in- 
dignation repressed in his own proud bosom found 
vehement expression in that vivid young face and 
the music of that young impassioned voice. 

“ O Governor Huff, Governor Huff ! ” he exclaimed, 
“the poor fellows think they have enough to do 
with her old Grace — Disgrace I mean — of Marl- 
borough and red-haired Somerset against them ; how 
they would tremble did they see the valiant Amazo- 
nian Hesskin ready to charge upon their rear I Pooh, 
I say ! Let me have none of your petticoats in 
politics.” 

Esther threw herself into a chair and tossed her 
chin. 

“Yet you have told me fifty times that had L. T. 
or my Lord Secretary half the sense of Mrs. Masham 
the country might be saved.” 

“Masham is a good creature, a sensible creature, 

I don’t deny it. I love her dearly, and think she 
does me the offices of a friend.” 

“A friend ! ” cried Esther, “& mighty fine friend ! 
She that hath her Majesty’s ear, and hath only to 
whisper in it to put you in the place you merit ! Yet 
here you abide but plain Jonathan Swift, Vicar of 
Laracor. ” 

“You wrong her, Hessinage ; I’m convinced she 
hath done all she durst venture on my behalf.” He 
sighed and went on with a curious plaintiveness and 
hesitation, “I know not what to think except that 
the Queen does not love me. But why does not 
• her Majesty love me, Hess?— answer me that, you 
witch, for ’tis more than my reason can tell me.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


107 

Even with her master Esther was apt to exhibit 
more candour than tact. 

“One need be no witch to guess that your writ- 
ings have given her offence," she answered. 

Among the strange weaknesses and tendernesses 
of Swift's complex nature was to be reckoned a sen- 
timent of personal loyalty of an emotional, almost 
religious nature ; a kind of loyalty the former exist- 
ence of which we now admit as a historical fact 
without being able to understand it. In him this 
sentiment was already but a survival ; it could not 
subdue his reason enough to make a Jacobite of him, 
but it could make him very sensitive to the disfavour 
of the last Stuart Queen. When Esther had spoken, 
his head dropped on his breast, his dark cheek grew 
paler and he answered nothing. She took an orange 
from the dish ready for him, prepared it and placed 
it at his side. It was the customary attention which 
he was used to call his tribute, and to accept with 
mock regality, but this evening he thanked her almost 
humbly and cried with a dreary smile, “Coffee and 
oranges ! Ay, those are the only good things in Lon- 
don ; the only good things I sha’n't get at Laracor.” 
And then he was silent again. Esther was accus- 
tomed to his silences, and liked them almost better 
than talk. There was a feeling of intimacy in being 
admitted to them. After a while she rose, took some 
books from the shelf and put them quietly on the 
table. Swift shook his head smilingly at them. 

“Kind, kind Slutikin ! " he said. “Thou know'st 
there’s nothing soothes the enraged politician like 
philosophy and the belles lettres ; 'tis the one senti- 
ment in which even the Lord Treasurer and the 
Secretary can agree. But, Esther," he continued, 
pushing the books away, “I have seen this long 
while that your studies weary you, and for all your 
good nature what wearies you cannot please me." 

“ Weary me ? " she cried. “ Oh, how ? When ? " 

“How? When?" he repeated with a somewhat 
bitter playfulness. “It is easy to see how studies 
may weary a fine young miss whose eyes are made 
for brighter things than-books, and as to when — why, 


io 8 ESTHER V A Nil OMR I GH 

when you cannot put your mind into what you are 
doing. ” 

“Sure, sir, you’re not blaming poor weak female 
brains for their dulness,” said she, biting her fan. 

“A fig for your excuses, you impudent madam. 
Dull you are not, but an idle, lazy, ignorant hussy, 
that wants to be shaking her heels to a fiddle with 
the young fellows, I warrant her, instead of poring 
over grave books with a gown of forty. Pshaw, 
Hess ! ’Tis a vile excuse. I know as well as any 
what female brains are like, and I tell you yours are 
not such. Han’t I taught a young woman before 
now, ay, and one that’s twenty times wittier than 
you? The little monkey was quick to learn and 
quick to forget, and understood her book but never 
thought over it, and could give me back my own 
opinions so much better than I had expressed ’em my- 
self, that on my conscience I took ’em for hers. 
Consider, miss, how different from your behaviour, 
you that dispute every w'ord I utter and must needs 
forsooth have your pretending opinions. She liked 
her book for — other people’s sake ; but you was 
meant to spend your days grubbing in college libra- 
ries and to end ’em a Bentley. O Lord ! O Lord ! 
Smoke little Hesskin a Bentley ! ” 

He had talked out his irritability and smiled. 

“Pray scold, sir, so long as you make it plain ’tis 
but for scolding’s sake. Sure never was woman 
compounded of such opposite vices ! A giddy hussy 
and a pedantic book-worm ! " 

“’Tis monstrous I own, but ’tis the truth. The 
scholar got the better of the hussy for a month or two, 
but now she will not be denied. I saw you last Wed- 
nesday, miss, at Lady Lansdowne’s, standing up 
with some puppy or other ; the company was saying 
you danced very finely, but as to that I am no judge ; 
I only know you was looking as proud as a peacock 
and as pleased as Punch, and all because you was 
strutting about and being handed round by a red- 
heeled jackanapes, before the smartest drabs of qual- 
ity in London. On your honour, did you not enjoy 
yourself mightily at Lady Lansdowne’s ? ” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


IO9 

“I will not deny it, sir ; I was pleased you should 
see ’tis a false accusation you bring against me when 
you say that I do not love fine company only 
because I cannot be of consequence in it.” 

“On your honour again, Essie, are not your 
thoughts wandering to all the diversions you miss 
when you have let Moll go off to her moderns in her 
. finest clothes, and leave you in the sluttery with your 
ancients in — in a mob, or whatever you ladies call 
that deshabille of yours ? ” 

And he looked curiously, perhaps approvingly at 
her dress. 

“ Indeed, sir, you are mistook. You forget I have 
been longer in the world than Molly, and have worn 
so many smart clothes and seen so much smart 
company, I am tired of it all. O I love it well 
enough now and then, when I am not splenetic, but 
never so well as coffee in the sluttery.” 

Swift appeared to be satisfied, and opening Tully 
0/ Moral Ends , began to read aloud. 

Presently he came to this passage: — “Epicurus 
declares it his opinion that wisdom among all the 
ingredients of happiness has not a nobler, a richer, 
or more delightful one than friendship.” 

“ Ay,” he said, “’tis in such sentiments as these 
we see the true wisdom of the ancients and their 
superiority to us barbarous moderns. We who say 
little of friendship, but are for ever celebrating love , 
love , love with the most ridiculous earnestness.” 

“Pray, sir,” replied Esther with spirit — for the 
Doctor had lately shown peculiar animosity to the 
tender passion — “must there not be some good in a 
sentiment those great wits, the poets, agree in cele- 
brating, and Christian times have honoured much 
more than heathen ? ” 

“ Simpleton ! You know as well as I the Christian 
Church permits but does not encourage human folly, 
and as for great wits, ’tis admitted they are the 
greatest fools.” 

“ How loth would a certain great wit be to admit 
it in his own person ! ” cried she, holding up her 
finger. “But seriously you cannot expect me to 


no 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGII. 


admire a conclusion which would shut us poor 
women out of the best part of your hearts, as we 
are already shut out of the best part of your minds.” 

“ H’m ! The worst’s too good for ’em. Let me 
tell you though, that when a woman deserves our 
friendship she gets it. Epicurus himself, who was 
by no means the rake he is vulgarly supposed, had 
several ladies among his intimates and followers.” 

“And you, sir, own yourself indebted to the friend- 
ship of the ladies Berkeley for much greater gains 
than prizes and promotions. Sure we are agreed in 
praising such friendship, and agreed too that ’tis rare. 
You say ’tis because we are unworthy of it, but your 
instance helps to show you wrong, for ’tis not the 
common kind of men who make friends of women, 
only the superior ones. Now do not laugh but listen, 
and I will tell you why. A booby, you know, al- 
ways loves to entrench himself behind the superiority 
of his sex, and that for very good reasons. Great 
wits like you, sir, do not fear a familiarity which can 
but breed the more respect. Then in ordinary men 
there is a coldness, a dullness of disposition, that 
makes them unapt to consider or feel with others in 
any very intimate manner. ’Tis so much easier to 
despise foreigners and women than to understand 
’em, that ’tis no wonder dull fellows prefer it. But 
some noble minds, the bent of whose genius it is to 
understand every language of the human heart, some 
such learn ours, and they love to converse with us — 
yes, they do, Doctor, though they have the weak- 
ness to be ashamed of it when they get among com- 
mon men, and to abuse us heartily, lest they should 
be suspected of partiality for us.” 

“I will pass you your strictures on my sex, miss — 
the more because I know ’em to be solely prompted 
by jealousy — and your reflection on my honesty — 
though I smoked it at once— in consideration of the 
compliments to myself you have mixed with your 
stuff Lord, Lord ! Poor Isaac Bickerstaff is fallen 
low in the world, when he is obliged to an ignorant 
brat for her fine speeches. Besides, though you have 
long been off the point of the argument, you have 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


Ill 


let me see in a sidelong kind of way — for ’tis the 
right to our friendship I observe you vindicate with 
so much warmth — that you are not quite the fool you 
made yourself out, when you talked about love. 
Pray now confirm my good opinion of your sense by 
confessing ’twas merely for the sake of disputing you 
contradicted me, when you know as well as I ’tis a 
very contemptible passion.” 

Esther blushed and hesitated. 

“I cannot think,” she said, “that love is always 
contemptible. It does not appear so in Petrarca, or 
in the heroes of Mademoiselle de Scudery, who were 
all, they say, drawn from real personages.” 

** Believe me, child, this love is always the same 
thing in the highest as in the lowest. Real person- 
ages be hanged ! Tis these rascally poets and 
romance writers that cheat women out of the little 
sense Nature gave ’em. Could the poor creatures 
see the world as it really is, even they would not 
snatch at the bait so readily, whether ’twere an offer 
of marriage or mere gallantry. To be complimented 
and caressed beyond reason for a few years, and 
treated with contempt for the rest of her life — that is 
commonly the lot of a woman, even if she be beau- 
tiful and well-endowed. I pity ’em, poor creatures 1 
But that they should be so well-pleased with a pas- 
sion that serves ’em thus scurvily, that is what I find 
surprising — no, not surprising, for what folly is sur- 
prising in woman or man either for that matter ? 
Fools, fools all ! But truly 'tis very laughable, and 
despicable too Love, indeed ! I thought, you silly 
Hess, you had more discretion than to talk of such 
pernicious nonsense to me.” 

Swift was tired, irritated, sick with hope deferred, 
•and he poured forth his scorn of men, women, and 
love with the ferocious bitterness of voice and coun- 
tenance peculiar to him. Esther was silent. He looked 
round and saw her leaned on her elbow and shading 
her eyes with her hand. 

‘ ‘ Slutikin, ” he said gently, ‘ 1 are those tears I see ? ” 

She did not answer, and he drew her hand away 
from her face and held it. 


1 1 2 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“What is it, my child? ” he asked anxiously. 

She was still silent, but the large tears rolled down 
her flushed cheeks and dropped into her bosom, mak- 
ing her look like the child he called her. With her 
free left hand she fumbled for h3r handkerchief to 
wipe them away. Swift whipped out his own large 
one and thrust it into her hand. 

“There, there,” he said, “ take it, 'tis silk. Lady 
Bolingbroke gave it me.” 

At another time Esther would have answered with 
gibes, asking him whether he had yet got a countess 
to find him his perukes, for they all knew there was 
one that kept him in night-caps, and whether ladies 
of less quality were still allowed to mend his cassock. 

This time she said nothing, but dried her tears with 
the red bandana. 

“Little dear Essie,” he cried, “I beg you to tell 
me what I have said to distress you.” 

Esther had for a young woman brought up in good 
society a remarkable incapacity for telling those small 
fibs without which it would be unmanageable. Even 
if she attempted to do so she totally failed to deceive. 
So now, instead of offering a plausible excuse with 
confidence, she pressed the handkerchief to her lips, 
looked away from the Doctor, and said in a muffled 
voice, “Oh, nothing, sir, nothing at all. 'Tis the 
spleen.” 

“Pish!” cried he, “tis true you are often con- 



“Oh, sir, 'tis my fortune ! — and Ginckel, and — and 
the debts,” she returned incoherently, and snatching 
away her hand she buried her whole face in the ban- 
dana and began to cry again. 

“What the deuce ! When your Cousin Purvis has 
just been fool enough to pay every debt your mamma 
durst tell her of? And you that’s gone into the whole 
matter like a lawyer, know well enough Ginckel can't 
touch your fortune. Don’t lie, Brat, till you can lie 
better. ” 

Esther unable to defend her excuses made no reply. 
Swift rose and paced up and down the room in an 
irritated manner. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“3 

“The truth is, Hess,” he said at last, “ you are in 
love. I have several times suspected as much.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, no,” cried Esther, burying- her face yet 
deeper in the pocket-handkerchief. “Tis cruel of 
you to say so.” 

“The truth is never cruel, my dear,” he returned 
with grave kindness, sitting down beside her. “I 
own I was wrong to speak in so violent and general 
a way of a passion common to the bad and the good. 
My excuse must be, that the bad are so greatly in the 
majority, that in speaking of mankind one aims at 
them. But, my dear, you must be sensible that I do 
not judge Molkin severely, who I’ll be bound has 
found a worse object for her affections than you are 
like to. To be sure I spoke too strongly — ’twas that 
Tokay of Lord Treasurer’s which disorders the stom- 
ach and heats the head ; I will drink no more of it. 
In virtuous young ladies, such as Molkin or yourself, 
what is called love is not very blameable ; ’tis scarcely 
a passion but a weakness of the mind against w T hich 
they have no defence, for as if Nature did not present 
to them sufficiently the too charming idea, their par- 
ents and acquaintance are careful to do so, while they 
take no pains to provide ’em with its antidote, which 
is reason.” 

“But love, sir, may be founded on reason,” replied 
Esther with some return of spirit. 

“Stuff, Bratikin ! Reason shows the object either 
contemptible or worthy of some more solid senti- 
ment, as esteem and friendship. 

Esther sighed, dried her eyes and looked away. 

“ Do I not hear links at the door ? ” she asked. 

“So you will not confide in your friend, Miss Es- 
sie? Yet he is older and wiser than you, and could 
either help to the accomplishment of your wishes, if 
they be wise, or cure you of ’em, if the contrary. 
Indeed I fancied I knew all your fellows, but I can’t 
think of one of ’em that’s worth a sigh of Miss Van- 
homrigh’s, or half good enough to be her husband.” 

Esther smiled faintly. 

“What a farrago of nonsense is this we have been 
talking ! ” she said. “ Let us hear no more of it.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRJGH. 


1 14 

The link-boys had thrust their torches into the rings 
outside, and the front door opened wide to admit a 
merry noise of tongues and a little crowd of people, 
first jostling each other as dark silhouettes against 
the glare of the links and the bright reflections on the 
wet pavement without ; then, as they stepped into 
the lamplight of the narrow hall, transformed to glit- 
tering figures of gaily-dressed men and women. It 
was Madam Van and Molly, whom a party of the 
young lady’s admirers on their way to the Fountain 
Tavern, had insisted on chairing home in spite of 
the state of the streets. Voices confused in mirth, 
Molly’s clear laugh, and her mother’s, scarcely less 
fresh and young, reached Esthers ears. 

“Mercy on us ! They have company with ’em,” 
she cried, and darting out of the room, she banged 
the door behind her and fled hastily upstairs. But 
the company, after a playful dispute as to the chair- 
man’s fare, which, according to them ought to have 
been nothing less than Miss Molly’s slipper to drink 
her health out of, departed to the tavern, probably to 
drink their own health twenty times over out of more 
ordinary and convenient goblets. The two ladies 
came tripping upstairs, with the gleam and rustle of 
silks and the tap of little heels, bringing with them 
into the quiet, dimly-lighted back-parlour an atmos- 
phere of festivity and the great world. 

“Well, madams all, where have you been gadding 
to ? ” asked Swift, when the first greeting had been 
exchanged. 

“O sir, no further than Lady Wentworth’s in St. 
James’ Square,” replied Mrs. Vanhomrigh, “or I 
warrant the young sparks wouldn’t have troubled to 
carry my old bones hither, however they might have 
treated Molly’s young ones.” And she cast a glance 
of maternal pride at her charming Moll, so pretty 
in her peach-coloured lute-string, with the smile of 
pleasure and raillery still brightening her eyes and 
dimpling her soft cheeks. “ But pray, Doctor, what 
have you done with Hess ? ” 

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

“Governor Huff has a headache, or the vapours, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


115 

or some such thing. If I was you, madam, I would 
never mind her but take an orange.” 

“ Doctor, you are a barbarian. The vapours, in- 
deed ! Sure my poor girl is very sick or she’d never 
have left you so uncivilly. Ann, Ann ! Feathers 
and my hartshorn-drops.” 

“No no, mamma. What would they be for? She 
a’nt in a swoon,” interrupted Molly, endeavouring to 
restrain her mother. 

“Don’t be saucy, miss. How do you know what 
she’s in ? Anyway, feathers is good to burn, for they 
can do no harm. My vinaigrette — where is it ? Sure 
’twas here I put it. No ? Then there’s fairies in 
this house.” And whirling round the room in search 
of the missing vinaigrette, which was all the while 
in her pocket, she caught her heel in a hole in the 
carpet and stumbled forward, her slipper flying high 
in the air behind her. “Confound my shoe ! ” she 
cried. “ ’Tis the third time this evening. Slip it on 
quick, darling Moll. Hess will wonder I do not 
come.” 

“If she has a bad head, mamma, she had rather 
be left alone,” said Molly. 

“For shame, miss ! ” replied Mrs. Van, stamping 
her foot down into her shoe, which was too small, 
“ I trust her own mamma knows best what she 
likes. ” / 

So upstairs she flew, with a step as light as that of 
a girl of twenty, and was immediately heard burst- 
ing into Esther’s bedroom, brimming over with en- 
quiries and condolences. 

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, and then : 
“Now sit down, Molkin, pray,” he said, “and let 
us be cosy together, since there is no Governor Huff 
to tear your eyes out.” 

“But what is the matter with her?” asked Moll. 

“Moll,” returned he, leaning forward and speak- 
ing in an emphatic and mysterious voice, “I believe 
she’s in love.” 

Molly started. 

“ Pooh ! Mr. Bickerstaff,” she said, after an almost 
imperceptible pause, “ there never was such a man 


n6 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH, 


as you for giving credit to your own inventions. I 
believe you was almost convinced Mr. Partridge was 
dead when you had written your tale of his decease, 
and thought him, I believe, pretty impudent for main- 
taining the contrary. ” 

“ Faith, Molkin, you shall not put me off with rail- 
lery,” replied Swift. “You should know ’tis not a 
vulgar curiosity that makes me anxious to know what- 
ever may concern you or her.” 

And he spoke the truth, for his curiosity was so 
closely connected with what was lovable in his 
nature, his feminine capacity for interesting himself in 
the whole, the utmost detail, of a life which had once 
attracted his interest, that it was not so much a defect 
as the underside of a quality — the same quality which 
made Lord Oxford’s bitter independent pamphleteer, 
the unsparing critic of his political blunders, also his 
most sympathetic friend in domestic joy and sorrow, 
his truest in disgrace. But if the Doctor had been 
both clear-sighted and candid, he might have added 
that a touch of jealousy gave an edge to his curiosity. 
Molly had observed some little signs of this jealousy 
in him of late, and had misinterpreted it. Swift’s 
jealousy was that of the exclusive friend who sees 
himself in danger of being bidden to go down lower 
in favour of the lover. Molly leaned back in a cor- 
ner of a couch with her French hood thrown half 
off and played with her fan, looking at the Doctor 
demurely. 

“Sure, Doctor,” she said, “you know as much as 
I do. I am not the confidante nor the duenna.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense, Moll ! I’m confident you 
have noticed something, and if I were in your shoes 
I should be able to tell all about it. But you want 
penetration, Molkin. I’ll be hanged if I can think of 
one of your fellows that Essie has distinguished more 
than another. True, there’s a creature with a cocked 
hat, and aRamilies wig, and his sleeve empty, I have 
seen walk in the Park with her of a morning lately.” 

“Captain Fortescue,” returned Molly, “a very gal- 
lant young officer.” 

“May be, miss, but you’ll never persuade me that 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


II 7 

Hess could want taste so much as to be enamoured 
of a man without an arm. Monstrous ! Besides, the 
fellow’s illiterate. I heard her remark it.” 

“Then, sir, there’s Mr. Charles Ford.” 

“ Ford ! O, I’m positive it’s not Ford.” 

“But why not, sir? You tell us he is the finest 
scholar of any layman in England, and he has been 
mighty attentive to Essie.” 

“ Has been, perhaps, but now is mighty attentive 
to another young lady, it being plain that Miss Essie 
cared not a jot for him. Moll, name some other fol- 
lowers you have seen about her of late.” 

“ There is Sir James Bateman, the wealthy man 
with the palace in Soho ; a fine scholar and a patron 
of the Arts, and one that always greatly affected 
Essie’s society.” 

“What ? The man that lately lost his lady ? The 
inconsolable widower, and twice her age ? Essie has 
more delicacy.” 

“Inconsolable, sir? Must I teach you what that 
means? And as to age he is scarce so old as your- 
self. Yet I do not say there is a match in it — I but 
humour your fancy by naming her followers.” 

“ Molkin, you think to play with me, but I will not 
be put off so when I am serious. As to you, if you 
was brayed in a mortar like the fool you wot of, a 
grain or two of sense might be found in you, but not 
one of seriousness. Come now, since when has Essie 
been taken with the vapours?” 

Molly paused before answering, and waved her 
Chinese fan slowly, studying the little porcelain-faced 
people upon it. Then for an instant a provoking- 
smile played round the corners of her mouth, but it 
was gone before you could swear to it, and she said 
innocently : “ Lord, now, how long is it since Cousin 
Francis went abroad ? ” 

Swift started: “Molkin, you cannot mean to say 
— to hint — oh, ’tis impossible ! " 

Molly shrugged her shoulders. 

“ I told you, sir, I was not Essie’s confidante, but 
she has certainly been splenetic and averse to com- 
pany, and what you call vapourish, since he left 


1 1 8 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

And I take it as an odd thing that she has never 
spoken of him except once or twice to say ’twas a 
churlish way he left us, and to marvel that' he hath 
not writ since ; yet she was always extreme fond of 
him when he was at home.” 

“ Essie would be extreme fond of a lame duck that 
she had had the nursing of, and think it the best fowl 
in the barn-yard.” 

“ Yet I own,” he continued, rising, 4 * there’s some- 
thing in what you say, if his true that pity is akin to 
love. But Lord, Lord ! Essie in love with him ! 
Why, ’tis Midsummer madness 1 ” 

“O, sir, as the world goes, it would be a poor 
match, but my sister has her fortune and will have 
more, and sure Francis is a good honest creature, 
though his tongue is none of the sweetest.” 

The Doctor poked the fire noisily. 

“What!” he cried, “that little mean-looking 
sluttish fellow, not so much as come of honest 
parentage, as I have heard say? And your sister, 
as fine a lady as any woman of quality in the town, 
with so excellent an understanding and disposition, 
and handsome enough to please. Moll, Moll, here’s 
a sad folly! Faith, miss, I had best wish you good- 
night or I shall grow splenetic.” 

So he put on his hat and tramped round the corner 
to Bury Street, while Molly ran upstairs to her 
mother’s bedroom, took a leap on to the bed and sat 
there laughing. Mrs. Vanhomrigh, busy compound- 
ing some mysterious and horrible physic, asked her 
what her joke was. 

“My dearest mamma, I have been persuading the 
Doctor that Essie is in love with — with — now guess.” 

Mrs. Vanhomrigh paused with a phial in her hand 
and turned a grave face to her daughter. 

“O Molly, with whom? ” 

“I give you three guesses, mamma; you won’t 
do it in thirty.” 

“A plague on your guesses, miss. Tell me at 
once. ” 

“Why, mamma, with Cousin Francis.” 

And there was a simultaneous burst of laughter 
from the two ladies. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


II 9 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“Flowers, fresh flowers ! All a-growing and a- 
blowing ! Who’ll buy my flowers ? ” 

Above the many cries of the London street, it rang 
out clear from the strong round throat of a country 
girl who sat on the steps of a City church with her 
wares about her. Her damask roses and white pinks 
were breathing as sweet a scent into the morning air 
as ever they did at Hammersmith, among the night- 
ingales, and the large blossoms of forget-me-nots still 
looked as dewy fresh as when they hung clustering 
above their own blue reflections in the gliding 
Thames. The quality folk were not yet abroad, and 
the little knot of customers that kept accumulating 
and dispersing between the flower-girl on the steps 
and a costermonger’s barrow in the street, consisted 
of a few citizens, marketing women and idle children. 
Presently a white-haired man joined them, hobbling 
noisily on a stick and pushing his way through the 
loiterers with a large iron key. 

“By the Lord, Master Sexon,” said a fat woman 
resentfully rubbing her arm, “ it’s to be hoped when 
we’re corpses you’ll treat us a bit more respectful.” 

“ Rosemary sprigs, fair rosemary sprigs, twopence 
a score ! ” chanted the flower-seller. 

“A plague on your rosemary!” cried a pert girl 
of fourteen. “Sexton an’t going to a funeral or I 
guess he’d be in a better temper. ’Tis a wedding, 
I’ll warrant. OT do love a wedding ! ” 

An aged grandame who had drifted to the church 
steps and stood there leaning on her stick, with pro- 
truding under-lip and lack-lustre eye, apparently con- 
scious of nothing but the sunshine, lifted her head 
and looked towards the speaker. 

“Where is’t, my dear,” she asked almost eagerly. 
“I can’t see nothing. I’d like to see the wedding. 
But marry come up ! I’ve seen many and many a 
wedding — finer weddings nor you’ll see now-a-days, 


120 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


my dear. Scores and scores on 'em — fine, costly 
weddings and cake and wine plenty, and brides — 
ah, beautiful ! ” 

Her flash of interest in the life about her faded 
again, and she looked away muttering to herself, 
either in mere emptiness of thought, or calling to 
mind the many and various brides whom in her 
ninety years she had seen pass to the altar, and on 
through the various circumstances of life, to old age 
and the tomb. 

“Faith, dame, you're right," said the sexton. 
“Marrying you may see, little missie, and get a 
husband yourself if you’re a good girl, but weddings 
— Lord ! they ain’t worth opening the church for, 
and if I was Parson, I’d go no further than a tomb- 
stone to string up these ’ere private marrying folks.’’ 

“Mercy on us ! ’Tis a runaway match,’’ cried the 
girl, jumping for joy to find herself in contact with 
so exciting an incident. The interest of the little 
feminine crowd, which had been awakened by the 
word “wedding,’’ visibly quickened. 

The sexton, who was suffering from rheumatism, 
hobbled up three steps before he found breath to 
answer. Then he turned round and addressed the 
company in general. 

“Runaway match!’’ he repeated. “ Deuce take 
’em ! No ! If ’twere that there’d be small blame to 
’em for marrying on the sly. No, what I cry shame 
on is the way decent folk, ay, quality folk too, that’s 
been courting this twelvemonth, ’ll come sneaking 
up to church in a hackney coach, master in a sur- 
tout and miss in a Mob, and not half-a-dozen people 
with ’em. Audit’s ‘Pray Parson cfon’t tell on us,’ 
and, ‘Be sure the rascal sexton holds his tongue,’ 
and precious little we gets for our trouble — that I can 
tell you — precious little ! ’’ And he brought his stick 
down on the step with emphatic disgust. 

“’Tis a shame, that it is ! ’’ cried the fat woman, 
forgetting her personal wrongs in her sympathetic 
indignation. 

“ Not a bite nor a sup do we get, ma’am, that I can 
tell you,’’ continued the sexton, addressing himself 
to her. 


ESTHER VAHHOMRIGH. 


121 


“ Tis quite the mode, though,” said a mercer’s 
lady, lately own woman to a Baronet’s wife, “for 
the very high quality does it pretty often, only they’re 
married in their own chambers. But ’tis mighty pro- 
voking, I own, to know naught of the matter till you 
hear the drums under their window in the morning.” 

“’Tis enough to make one wish more funerals nor 
weddings,” observed a saturnine female, related to a 
butcher, who was cheapening spring carrots. “At 
any rate there’s good roast and biled for every one 
at ’em.” 

“ Skinflintin, new-fangled ways I ” ejaculated the 
sexton. 

“Well, there’s the reception next day,” continued 
the mercer’s lady meditatively, “and ribbon cock- 
ades more the mode than ever. Why, they do say 
my Lord Strafford’s cost five guineas apiece.” 

“Who’s going to be married, Master Sexton?” 
asked some one not interested in the business side of 
the question. 

“ A parson, ” replied the sexton. ‘ ‘ Not one of your 
Church mice, that can’t do things handsome if they 
would, but a fellow with a good fat living, and his 
lady a little fortin as they say.” 

“ Is she a beauty ? ” asked the girl of fourteen, gig- 
gling. “I’d like to get a peep at her. Lord, how 
oddly she must be feeling ! ” 

“Poor creature! I wish she might never feel 
worse ! ” said a handsome, haggard young woman, 
with a baby on one arm, a heavy basket on the other, 
and a second toddling child clinging to her skirts. 
“She’s got her troubles before her.” 

“Come, neighbour Thomson, you’d best go away.” 
said another, “ or you’ll be bringing bad luck on the 
bride, pretty dear, with your croaking.” 

“Go ! Oh, you may be sure I’ll go as fast as may 
be,” replied neighbour Thomson. “I’d sooner run 
a mile nor see a wedding. It creeps down my back 
like cold water, it does.” 

Yet as a hackney coach rattled up to the church 
steps, she turned round to look with the rest. The 
first to jump out was a smart little lady in a riding- 


122 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


dress ; a camlet petticoat, a man's coat and waist- 
coat of scarlet cloth laced with silver, matched by 
the scarlet ribbon tying back her hair, a large lace 
cravatte, and a miniature beaver cocked defiantly. 
As regarded her dress, there was no reason why she 
should not be the bride, but somehow it was plain 
she was not. Next, stooping his stately head under 
the low lintel of the coach door, came an ecclesias- 
tic in a new silk gown and a decorous but fashionable 
peruke. As he stood ready to hand out the two re- 
maining ladies, the whispering spectators pronounced 
him a little old for his part, but a fine figure of a man 
for all that. The genteel woman who followed him 
must be the bride's mother, but the public interest 
centred in the tall young lady who descended last. 
She wore a white-flowered damask dress. It was a 
costume that would have been trying to many hand- 
some women, especially in the bright morning sun- 
shine, but the soft purity of her skin and the young 
curves of cheek and chin and throat triumphed over 
the hard whiteness of their surroundings. The sun- 
shine without gilded her hair ; an inner fire coming 
out to meet it helped to make her eyes so sparkling 
and her lips so red. There was a murmur of appro- 
val from the spectators. 

“If you’ll take my advice, Madam Van," said the 
Doctor, “you won’t keep the coachman here, but 
get one called when the business is done, or he’ll 
fleece you to the tune of a crown or two." 

“I love to oblige, Mr. Dean," replied Madam 
Van. “ But I’ve took your advice once too often al- 
ready this morning. Y ou was importunate we should 
start at once, and here I am with my stays but half 
laced." She pointed to a smart be-ribboned pair of 
those articles, which, as the fashion was, formed a 
visible part of her costume. “And, Molly, I vow, 
has caught up the worst pair of gloves in her box 
and forgot her patch and her fan, and " 

“Her perfume-flask and her snuff-box and the 
rest of her modish fal-lals, all for show and none for 
use," interrupted the Doctor. “So much the bet- 
ter, madams all, so much the better," 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


123 

“And here we are,” continued Madame Van, “we 
and nobody else, but the sexton trying to bring to a 
conclusion some very old quarrel with the church 
door. ” 

For the sexton’s rheumatic fingers were now wrest- 
ling with the large key and rusty lock. 

“Tisbut poor housewifeqq Mr. Dean, to save a 
crown on coach-hire, and waste thrice as much by 
spoiling your attire,” said Molly. 

Swift shrugged his shoulders and made as if he 
would stop his ears. 

“Faith,” he cried, “ I have drawn an old house on 
my head ! Go your own ways, hussies ; throw your 
money down any gutter you please, and the good 
Doctor will not hinder you.” 

Fortunately for the supposed bridegroom’s reputa- 
tion with the crowd, who despise nothing so much 
as economy, his remarks had been made in a low 
voice, and their attention was fixed on the lady in 
white. She had stepped aside to look at the flower- 
girl’s wares, and was now considering a bunch of 
deep red damask roses. 

“Pish! child,” said Swift, “those will never be- 
come thee ! Lord, Lord ! What will Moll and you 
do when the poor Doctor’s gone, and there’s no one 
to tell you when you look frightfully ? ” 

He picked up a bunch of forget-me-nots and tried 
their effect against the white damask. “ See here, miss, 
an’t these the charmingest things ? Odsbodikins ! En- 
feeble me if they an’t the prettiest things for showing 
off a fair skin like your la’ship’s, and cheap, dirt cheap 
at — I mean, what’s the price, girl? You should give 
’em me cheap for praising your wares better than 
you could do it yourself. Ah, why, why was I not 
a mercer? I should have got a fortune by this time, 
instead of an Irish Deanery. But no matter. Here’s 
the posy for thee, Hess. So — stick it in your bosom 
just where your hood ties. ’Tis a pity your eyes are 
not blue, or I could make I know not what fine com- 
parisons. But on my conscience there’s not a 
penn’orth of blue in ’em.” 

The old grandame was standing at the foot of the 


124 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


steps, bowed over her stick. Her dull gaze was 
fixed on Esther, and her tremulous under-lip had been 
moving for some time, but it was only now that 
audible words came. 

“Bless you, bless you, my pretty mistress ! ” she 
cried in a hoarse feeble voice, stretching out her 
deeply-veined, wasted hand and arm. “Happy's 
the bride the sun shines on. And a beautiful bride 
you make, mistress, ay, that you do. Old Bess can tell 
you that — ninety years of age last Martinmas I am, 
your honours. It's a great age, a great age. Many's 
the bride I’ve seen married and buried and all, and 
by’r Lady, your good gentleman's in luck. God bless 
your honour, and give you many days and happy, 
you and your good lady there. Ninety years old I 
am, your honour, and hale and lusty for my years.” 

There was a murmur among the spectators, some 
echoing the crone's “ God bless you,” some her praise 
of the bride, others whispering their own remarks on 
the couple. While the poor old creature was speak- 
ing, Esther turned very pale, and then in a moment 
the carnation colour rushed over her face from brow 
to chin. A confused emotion between pleasure and 
terror and shame made her heart stand still, then give 
a great bound, and go on beating so loud it seemed 
to her that the bystanders must hear it. She bowed 
her face over her bouquet of forget-me-nots, as though 
she expected them to smell sweet, and made no reply 
either to Swift or to the old woman. The Dean, far 
from being embarrassed, seemed rather gratified at 
the mistake. He smiled slyly and felt for his purse, 
which always opened at the call of charity. Taking 
out a shilling he went down the steps and placed it 
in the crone’s hand, folding her small claw-like fin- 
gers over it with his own. 

“There’s for your blessing, grandam,” he said, 

“ and I hope I and my good lady, as you call her, 
may deserve it, though indeed 'tis very doubtful if 
we do.” 

Then he bowed gravely to the admiring crowd and 
returned, delighted at the little mystification, and 
making a just perceptible grimace at Esther, as one 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


125 

who was sure like himself to find it mighty pleasant. 

Esther laughed awkwardly. 

“Fie, Mr. Dean! Behave now, do! These good 
people will be angry when they find how they are 
deceived, and by a Dean too.” 

“ I believe you are angry yourself, Governor Huff,” 
he said. “You are are as red as a turkey-cock. 
Silly ! ” 

Then he paid for the forget-me-nots and for some 
other flowers which he presented to Mrs. Vanhom- 
righ and Molly. 

“Tis a most profligate expenditure,” he said. 
“ But 'tis the last, the farewell extravagance, com- 
mitted for the spendatious hussies of the sluttery 
sisterhood. Faith, it gives me short sighs to think 
on't.” 

A subdued sound of wailing and lamentation went 
up from Mrs. Vanhomrigh and Molly ; decorously 
subdued because they were now entering the church. 
He waited for Essie to join in it, but she made no 
sign. 

“Still angry, Governor Huff?” he asked in her ear. 
“Is it so unpardonable a crime for a luckless wretch, 
such as I, to play for a moment at being a happy 
man? Well, may you never know what 'tis to be 
miserable ! ” 

“I do,” she answered shortly in a deep tone, not 
looking at him but gazing straight before her. 

“Tilly-vally ! ” he exclaimed ; then checking him- 
self — for was not this perhaps the last day of many 
days, which he was more loth than he had thought 
to bring to an end? — “Well, at least you know what 
'tis to be happy.” 

A slow illuminating smile passed over Esther's 
face, and her eyes, though fixed on the same point, 
were wider. 

“Yes,” she answered. 

“ Ah ! I do not. There’s the difference,” he replied 
bitterly. 

Now the real bride and bridegroom drove up at 
the same moment to opposite doors of the church, 
but their arrival received only the amount of notice 


j ? 6 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

that the crowd bestows on that of guests at a wed- 
ding. A deshabille , or as it was called a Mob, was 
considered a very proper costume for a bride on such 
a private occasion, but it was not one to set off the 
scant and gawky charms of Miss Stone. 

“ Lord ! An’t she a pea-hen of a woman ! ” cried 
Molly to the Dean, as he hurried into the vestry to 
don his surplice. Molly had a habit of making audi- 
ble remarks on persons in her near neighbourhood, 
but the same Providence which protects children and 
drunken men usually preserved her from being over- 
heard. The Dean, who was punctiliously courteous 
in many respects, and had no claim on that particu- 
lar Providence, answered by a frown so portentous 
that it made her seriously uncomfortable for some 
minutes. Mrs. Vanhomrigh meantime was in a de- 
lightful state of excitement, kissing every one within 
reach, and saying quite loud, as the bridegroom 
passed up towards the altar, “ Lud, girls, 1 wish 
either of you may get as proper a fellow ; ” whereat 
Mr. Harris, a good-looking young man, fair and 
fresh and six foot two in his stockings, blushed very 
much. Being the kind of young man who always 
does and feels precisely what is expected of him, he 
was altogether as blushing and constrained as was 
proper to his position. 

Now the church doors were locked, and the whole 
party, which consisted of little more than a dozen 
people, stood in the chancel. The Dean, clad in the 
short and dirty surplice of the parish clergyman, be- 
gan reading the service in his most impressive man- 
ner, and the married ladies present, as used to be 
customary at weddings, began to cry. When the 
final exhortation, which the Dean read to the bride 
with unnecessary severity, was reached, Mrs. Van- 
homrigh, gazing tearfully at her niece, whispered to 
Molly— . 

“’Tisjust as I said, my dear, when your cousin 
was cheapening that gown at Delamode’s. There’s 
five guineas’ worth of bad temper gone into them 
shoulders.” 

“ There an’t five guineas’ worth of anything in the 
train,” replied Molly, disdaining to whisper. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


127 

“Sh, child! You should pay attention to the 
prayers. Sure I hope the boy’s going round to ask 
all the folks to dinner. Have you heard say whether 
Cousin Annesley’s moved to his new house at Chel- 
sea yet? ’Twould be plaguey provoking should he 
not get the invitation.” 

In marrying their daughter privately the Stones 
did what was usual with sensible persons of the mid- 
dle class, who were averse to incurring the worry 
and expense of a public ceremony and the three or 
four days of pandemonium which succeeded it. On 
such an occasion the young couple would leave the 
church separately and meet again at a tavern or at 
the house of a friend, where they would dine and di- 
vert themselves with the small wedding party for the 
rest of the day, giving a reception at their own home 
on the following one. Mrs. Vanhomrigh had offered 
her house for this purpose, and the arrangement was 
equally agreeable to the Stones, to whom spending 
money at a tavern seemed little short of profligacy, 
and to Madam Van who dearly loved to see com- 
pany and to play a part, no matter how humble, in a 
wedding. So private an affair was repugnant to her, 
but she consoled herself by planning the fine doings 
there should be when her own daughters were mar- 
ried, and by inviting as many relatives as could be 
got together at a few hours’ notice. 

Swift resisted all pressure to join the party at din- 
ner, boldly alleging his dislike of the crowd, the 
heat, the superabundant food and drink, and the 
time-honoured wit that he would be certain to find 
there. He came in later to taste the bridecake and 
take a dish of tea, but he looked gloomy and pre- 
occupied. 

“Call you this privacy, Madam Van ? ” he asked, 
looking round the crowded room. “Tis as public 
as an auction.” 

“A fig for your privacy! ’Tan’t privacy they 
want, ’tis cheapness, ’’returned the heated and radiant 
Madam Van. “Yet ’twould be a pity if the drums, 
poor creatures, couldn’t get wind of the matter. Live 
and let live, say I.” 


128 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“ Oh, pray live, madam, if you find any amusement 
in it, and let anything else live except the drums. 
They may fitly beat a quick march for a couple of 
simpletons into the battle of married life, but why 
should they confoundedly punish every unoffending 
creature in the neighbourhood?” 

“Mr. Dean, you’re one of them stout paga-ns that 
make the stoutest Christians, when they re converted. 
Let’s drink to your conversion. Hess, child, fill the 
Doctor out a dish of tea. Lord ! how finely he read 
the service this morning ! ” 

“No thanks to Moll,” returned the Dean, “with 
her comparison of the pea-hen. Do but look at the 
bride-thing there, with her strut and her neck and her 
nose ! A pea-hen ! Twas a wonder I did not say 
in the midst of the business, * Moll, you are an 
hgreeable wretch ! * ” 

“So ’twas Moll you was thinking of all Jthe time,” 
said Esther. “ Sure she’s high in favour to engross 
your thoughts even in church. ” 

“She did not engross my thoughts, Miss Essie,” 
returned Swift in a lower key. “ What ! D’ye think, 
with the Archbishop, I have no religion ? ” 

“Why do you think about Moll in church, sir? 
’Twas a thankless sin, for she does not bestow a 
thought upon you. ” 

“Now you are jealous as the devil ! There’s an- 
other person I think of in church sometimes, Hesskin, ” 
he added gravely, “ and pray for us both together, 
that we may be delivered from the spleen and live in 
charity with our neighbours. I pray the Almighty 
very earnestly that He may make us both more con- 
tent and better Christians than we are ; and since 
He does not require informing so much as most 
prayer-makers believe, I leave it to Him to decide 
which of us lacks most in doctrine and which in 
practice.” 

Here the bride, too elated by her position and the 
unusual dimensions of the men of the Harris family, 
to be afraid of the Dean of St. Patrick’s, came up with 
her mother to thank him for officiating. 

“Sure, sir, my father-in-law — the fine big old gentle- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


129 

man yonder, who you may have heard tell of in the 
City — protests you are so fine a man that when he 
came into church he took you to be an Archbishop. 
Lord ! we would not for the world have been married 
by the little scrub parson of the parish, no higher 
than Moll there. Such folks shouldn’t be in the 
Church ; ’tis impossible to reverence ’em.” 

“Certainly, madam,” replied the Dean, “if promo- 
tion were measured out fairly to the clergy, so much 
to every square inch of ’em, I might hope by a gen- 
erous diet to fit myself for a bishopric in partibus In- 
fidelium — which means Ireland, you know — and I 
trust, but I cannot be sure, that your housewifery 
would be good enough to bring Mr. Harris to the 
primacy before very long. ” 

“ Sir,, your most obleeged,” replied the young lady, 
curtseying. “Mr. Harris will be vastly obleeged 
when he hears your good opinion of him.” 

“.Yes, I have a good opinion of Mr. Harris, madam. 

I think him a worthy and amiable young man and 
an excellent clergyman, and I trust you will always 
submit to him and esteem him as greatly your superior 
in wisdom and in virtue, as both reason and duty 
bid you to do. Yet do not, as many wives use, 
tease him with a foolish fondness which he cannot 
be expected to reciprocate. For you must not forget, 
madam, that however a lover may talk of charms 
and raptures, marriage puts a sudden and complete end 
to the ridiculous illusion of what is called Love. But 
I trust ’twas no more than a reasonable liking that 
instigated this match of yours and Mr. Harris’s.” 

The unlucky object of his homily looked by this 
time inclined to cry, and Esther plucked him by the 
sleeve. So he wound up his remarks more mildly. 
“Endeavour then to become worthy of your hus- 
band’s friendship and esteem ; for this is the only 
means by which you can make marriage a blessing 
rather'than a curse.” 

“Good Heaven, sir!” exclaimed Esther in alow 
voice, as the disconcerted bride retreated, “ will you 
never be tired of preaching homilies against women 
and marriage ? Sure you must consider both of more 
9 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


130 

importance than you pretend, or you would talk of 
’em less. You may hector your brides of quality to 
your heart’s content, but I do not love to have you 
frighten my cousin on her. wedding-day, and in my 
mother’s house.” 

Swift shrugged his shoulders uneasily. 

“Oh, I cannot abide a fool, Brat. You should not 
have let you cousin be a fool, if you wanted me to 
be civil to her. But I cry you mercy ; only do not 
let the Governor chide too much to-day, lest we 
should part in unkindness.” 

The truth was that on returning to his lodgings 
from the church, he had found a note from the gentle- 
man with whom he proposed to ride on his journey 
as far as Chester, telling him to be ready to start on 
the morrow should they call for him. Amid all the 
bitterness and humiliation of his exile, for as such 
he reckoned his promotion to the Deanery of St. 
Patrick’s, it added greatly to his depression, to think 
that he must now part in a very definite manner 
from these friends who had made him a kind of home 
in London. Brilliant, interesting, intoxicating as 
had been the three years of his life there, to one of 
his sensitive nature they would have been far less 
happy without the background of that hospitable 
house of neighbour Van’s, where he might keep his 
gown when necessary and find it mended, and dine 
on a wet day, and pass those odd hours when he 
could not love his own company, chiding, instruct- 
ing, being chidden and worshipped by three women, 
each in her own way above the common. The 
hour had come when these pleasant relations must 
cease, and he delayed to say farewell because like 
most English people, he shrank from a set scene of 
emotion, and also because in the back of his mind 
there floated a vague consciousness which he utterly 
refused to crystallise into thought ; a consciousness 
that there was something more serious and complex 
in these relations than he had intended, and that 
breaking them off would not be quite so natural and 
easy as he had always supposed it would be. He 
was exceedingly sensitive to all claims upon him, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


131 

and perhaps for that very reason shrunk from allow- 
ing- them to be set up. This feeling was not the 
source of his resolution against marriage, but it 
helped very much to strengthen it. He imagined 
that by avoiding that particular bond he avoided 
giving to any one person a dominant claim upon 
his life ; his mind accepted this superficial reason- 
ing, but his heart had too much “ intelligence of 
love,” to be wholly deceived by it. He had taken 
the responsibility of a woman's life when he had 
brought Esther Johnson, then a beautiful and attrac- 
tive girl, to Ireland ; when he had made himself so 
completely and obviously the centre of her existence 
that her marriage with another was impossible from 
her own point of view and from that of any lover 
but one of very dull perceptions. When, on the ap- 
pearance of such a lover, he had, while pretending 
to listen to his application for Mrs. Johnson's hand, 
practically discouraged him, and in private ridiculed 
him to the lady of his choice with all the bitterness 
of a jealous rival. He would not for the world have 
acknowledged that in acting thus he had given her 
at least as strong claims upon him as he would have 
done by making her his wife. Yet when he said to 
himself that his return to P.pt. meant the end of 
his intimacy with the Vanhomrighs, it was to those 
unacknowledged claims that he yielded. 

He had not yet made up his mind in what fashion 
he might best let Esther Vanhomrigh know that this 
was in all probability their last meeting, when Mrs. 
Stone brought up several relatives to be introduced 
to the Dean of St. Patrick's and to congratulate him 
on his promotion. Others who were slightly ac- 
quainted with him, but had not met him since the 
news of it was public, came round to add their con- 
gratulations, which he received with a genial grace, 
as though he were indeed immensely pleased at his 
own good fortune. Esther had seen this little com- 
edy before, but continued to be impatient of it. She 
herself neither could nor would dissimulate her 
sentiments or opinions, and it seemed to her un- 
dignified for this greatest of men to be pretending 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


132 

gratitude ior, delight in, what was really a slight, 
almost an insult. For had not his obscured predeces- 
sor in the Deanery been put into a Bishopric merely 
to keep him out of it ? So she loudly declared her- 
self unable to congratulate Dr. Swift on an appoint- 
ment so unequal to his deserts, banishing him as it 
did from the civilized world, and unable to believe 
him so ignorant of his own merit as to be content 
with it. Swift was as proud as herself in his way, 
but more worldly wise, and he was evidently dis- 
pleased at her intervention, though it brought him 
in a harvest of hollow compliments from the by- 
standers. 

Mrs. Vanhomrigh, standing at a little distance, 
could not perceive this jar ; she only saw the Dean 
and Esther the centre of an animated group, and 
Molly at the harpsichord in the back parlour with a 
contingent of emulous admirers, each and all bent 
on turning over her music. If anything could have 
put her in higher spirits than before, these two sights 
would have done so. Now that she had made Mrs. 
Stone every possible compliment on the appearance, 
manners and prospects of the bride and bridegroom, 
she observed : 

“ My stars ! How we shall miss the good Doctor 
. — Dean, I should say — when he crosses that nasty 
puddle yonder ! He’s the good-naturedest man in 
the world, as you may have seen for yourself, 
sister.” 

“ Well, you know him best, sister Vanhomrigh,” 
replied Mrs. Stone bluntly. ‘‘But he seems to me a 
rather sour-spoken gentleman. ’Twas enough to ter- 
rify anybody, let alone a bride, the way he spoke 
to Sarah.” 

“Tis just his downright way,” returned Mrs. Van- 
homrigh. “ He’s all candour, all straightforwardness, 
Susan — not one of your mealy-mouthed gentlemen 
that’s full of slipperiness and deceptions. When a 
woman's been as much in the world as I have, she 
will not trust your smooth fellows.” And Madam 
Van shook her pretty bright-eved head wisely, as one 
who lived in a deep and continual state of suspicion 
of her fellow-mortals. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


*33 

“Well, sister, ’tisan odd thing to hear a clergyman 
speak so of holy matrimony. I hope your Esther 
may bring him to better dispositions.” 

“ He might be in better, Sue, and he might be in 
worse, for he might not consider the matter at all,” 
replied Mrs. Vanhomrigh. “ However, I’m not one 
of them that’s anxious to rid themselves of their dear 
daughters, and I believe there’s no man they can 
marry but I shall often wish ’em at home again. ” 

“I must bid you farewell, Madam Van,” said the 
Dean coming up with an artificial air of ease, * ‘ and that 
very like, for a long time. I am told to hold myself in 
readiness for a start to-morrow, if it should prove con- 
venient to my friends who purpose to ride with me. 
I will not make long speeches and talk wisely, lest 
Moll there should overhear me and laugh. Farewell, 
madam, and God bless you and yours ! ” 

He shook hands warmly with the Vanhomrighs, 
bowed to the rest of the company and vanished, say- 
ing to himself as he went down the stairs, that part- 
ings being disagreeable things it was better for all 
parties to get the business done as quickly and pub- 
licly as possible, so that there rqight be neither time 
nor place for tiresome compliments and conventional 
expansions of sentiment. 

So he went home to Bury Street, pleased to have 
got the thing over and determined to resist the tide 
of black and bitter melancholy which was rising in 
his mind at the prospect of his departure. 

Meantime in St. James’ Street his leave-taking did 
not give such satisfaction. Mrs. Vanhomrigh was in 
a few respects the woman of the world she loved to 
think herself in all, and after the first loud expressions 
of surprise and regret, she let the company know that 
she was not in reality very much surprised, and felt 
sure the Dean would be back again before long. And 
this was not far from the truth, for Swift had already 
delayed going to Ireland longer than was expected, 
and no one believed he would stay there. *F or Esther, 
it was as though the world had suddenly shattered 
round her. He was gone. It was incredible. An- 
other might still have considered the company pres- 


ESTHER VAHHOMRIGH, 


134 

ent, but for her whose nature it was to be always 
concentrated on one point, they did not exist. She 
stood where he had left her, deadly pale and mechan- 
ically opening and shutting her fan. Some one spoke 
to her, but she did not return any answer, and Molly 
observed the speaker, who was Aunt Stone’s younger 
son, exchange a sneering smile with his sister Anna, 
Moll came up to her sister, and rearranging a knot of 
her ribbons said : “ You should not have been stand- 
ingall this while, when you was so poorly yesterday. 
Come into the back parlour, for Cousin Edward and 
Mr. Tom Harris are setting out a table for ‘ One and 
Thirty/ Do you not love a round game, Anna ?” 

The Vanhomrigh ladies were too fond of conver- 
sation to be ardent card-players, though for fashion’s 
sake they were obliged to set out tables when they 
had company. Esther hated a round game, but she 
submitted to being put down to the table, where she 
played with conspicuous inattention to her cards and 
her money. Before the game was half over there 
came an urgent message from the Dean, saying he 
had dropped a folded slip of paper from his pocket, 
and that it was of the utmost importance it should be 
found. He sent a tiny note to Esther, which she 
opened with a throb of expectation, but it only con- 
tained the words — “ Lost the key to a cipher. Seek ! 
Seek I! Seek!!!” 


CHAPTER IX. 

There was a thorough search made round the two 
parlours and on the stairs, but no paper was to be 
found. It was decided that the Dean must have 
dropped it between St. James’ Street and Bury stieet, 
and the party settled down as before, with the ex- 
ception of Esther. When the search had proved, in 
vain, she remembered seeing a folded piece of paper 
lying by the altar rails in church, close by where the 
Dean stood. Sending welcome injunctions to Pat- 
rick, the Dean’s footman, to join the revels below 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


135 

stairs, she ran up for her hood and gloves and left 
the house as quickly and as quietly as she could. 
The dusty streets were beginning to be shady and 
were comparatively quiet, for it was not much past 
five o’clock, and the fashionable world had not yet 
left its after-dinner wine for the coffee-house, the 
tavern or the Mall. Yet had they been noisier they 
would have seemed a haven of peace to Esther, a 
fugitive from the crowded stage of conventional 
merriment in which she had been playing her part 
for so many hours. She turned down by St James’s 
Palace into the Mall, where a certain number of 
people were already walking, and so past the milk 
fair at the corner to Spring Gardens. Thence she 
took a hackney coach to the Rectory, near the quiet 
church the Stones had chosen for the wedding. The 
Rector, whose dinner had been large, if not luxu- 
rious, sat over his empty bottle of Florence wine 
smoking a pipe of tobacco, and though he wondered 
much what Miss Vanhomrigh might want with the 
church key, he sent it down by the maid without 
exerting himself to formulate a question. So she 
went on to the church. The flower-seller had gone 
from the steps, and the costermonger’s cart from 
below them. Some grimy children were playing at 
marbles by the door, and interrupted in their game 
by the unexpected arrival, gathered round to stare at 
her, as she painfully turned the big key in the lock, 
with a faint exclamation of annoyance as she split 
the palm of her glove in the process. She had no 
sooner entered than a pale, inquisitive, snub-nosed 
little face, about on a level with the lock, was thrust 
in after her. She hastily withdrew the key and 
closed the door behind her. There was something 
strange and unnatural about the emptiness of the 
place, with the long rays of the afternoon sun 
streaming above its untenanted pews and bulging 
hassocks^ and cushions. The church smelt of dust, 
for it was not sufficiently fashionable to be open for 
those daily prayers which were wont to offer a con- 
venient rendezvous for the beau and the fine lady. 
It had none of the dim impressiveness of a mediaeval 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


136 

church, that seems reared with a view to Heaven 
rather than Earth, and whose arches, massive or 
soaring, neither gain nor lose by the accidental 
presence of ephemeral human creatures below them. 
No — the building seemed to cry out for a congrega- 
tion, and the mind’s eye involuntarily peopled it 
with its Sunday complement of substantial citizens 
and their'families. 

Esther walked quickly up to the altar rails and 
looked over. There lay the folded paper, just as she 
remembered it. She fell on her knees on the long 
stool placed there for the convenience of communi- 
cants, not with any idea of reverence, for Esther was 
a philosopher after the fashion of the day, but merely 
in order to reach the paper with greater ease. She 
snatched it up and glanced at it. Yes, it was undoubt- 
edly the lost key. Tossing her head with a little 
“Ah ! ” of triumph and satisfaction, she put it away 
safely in her pocket. The prize was secured, yet she 
lingered, ungloved her left hand, and touched a spot 
of ground just within the rails, pressing her warm 
palm and shapely fingers down upon the cold stone. 
Just there Swift had stood, so close to where she 
knelt that if he stood there now his robes would 
brush her as he moved. She hid her face on the 
arm that lay on the communion-rails, and with a 
thrill of passionate adoration saw once more the 
impressive figure that she had seen that morning, 
and heard again the grave tones of his voice. The 
sensation of bustle attendant on a wedding, the near 
presence of the little crowd of relations, had robbed 
the scene of its emotional quality at the time, but 
now she was fully sensible of its significance. She 
was kneeling just where the bride had knelt, and for 
her the recollection of the stupid, vulgar girl, who 
had been round to St James’ so often lately with 
tiresome questions about millinery, faded before the 
realisation of the woman’s heart that she had seen 
beating a few hours ago, on the spot where her own 
beat now — not more full, surely not so full of Jove 
and pride in the man beloved, but blest in a com- 
pleted joy that was not Esther’s yet. Might it not one 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


137 

day be hers also ? A minute or two only she con- 
tinued kneeling, and then passed down the aisle and 
out on to the steps like a somnambulist, pale, with 
wide eyes and close-pressed brooding lips. Another 
person so rapt might have forgotten to lock the door 
or else to return the church key to its owner ; but 
Esther’s methodicalness, a natural quality cultivated 
in response to Swift’s approval, never forsook her, 
and quite mechanically she struggled with the 
massive lock and left the key at the clergyman’s 
house with a message of thanks. 

As she called a coach she asked herself with a start 
whether she had done these things ; then smiled and 
blushed at her own self-absorption. Up till now she 
had had no definite purpose beyond that of finding 
the lost paper, and having accomplished this, she was 
going home again. But now, smiling, she thought: 
‘‘Patrick will be drunk by this time — at least, if he 
is not yet drunk he will not, in justice to himself, 
leave such a feast until he is. I had better take it 
myself.” 

It seemed a simple and natural thing to do, but 
though Swift received the Vanhomrighs at his lodg- 
ings as often as any other friends, that did not mean 
very often ; and she knew he hated to be unexpect- 
edly invaded by any one, most of all by ladies. Yet 
to lose this opportunity of finding out the truth about 
this sudden departure would be too tantalising. It 
must be only one of those foolish mystifications by 
which he loved to throw dust in the eyes of his 
acquaintance, and to which she had become almost 
resigned. As she drove on the desire to see him, to 
ask him a thousand questions such as he would not 
answer before others, and to extract from him a 
promise to write, grew till it became a necessity. 
So she got down at the corner of Bury Street, and 
flew on to the well-known door. She did not ob- 
serve Mr. Erasmus Lewis, who was passing through 
the street on the other side, but he observed her and 
her destination. On the door-step she paused, struck 
with sudden terror at finding herself entering unin- 
vited that presence which could sometimes be so 


1 38 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

awe-inspiring. Then, with a touch of scorn at her 
own unreasoning vacillation, she resolutely raised 
the knocker. No one came in answer to her rap, but 
she found that the door was on the latch, and went 
in. The doors of most of the rooms stood wide open 
and there was a feeling of loneliness about the dull 
little house. She went upstairs and knocked timidly 
at Swift’s parlour, but here too no one answered. 
The bedroom beside was obviously empty, and with 
an inconsequent sensation of relief she said to her- 
self he must be gone out, and peeped carelessly into 
the parlour. It was a dreary room at the best of 
times, and now it bore all those marks of disorder 
and discomfort that attend a move, even from lodg- 
ings. A large wooden case half full of books stood 
near the door, the floor and the chairs were strewn 
with volumes and those shabby odds and ends which 
seem never to appear except on such occasions ; 
while the hearthstone and empty grate were piled 
with an immense heap of papers, mostly torn up 
very small. The cloth had fallen off the heavy old 
oak table, which filled the middle of the room and 
was generally completely covered with books and 
pamphlets. It was quite bare now, except that the 
man who sat at one end on a high stool had 
bowed his body on it and lay face downwards on 
its polished surface, with arms and tightly-clenched 
hands stretched out before him. He was wrapped in 
a loose gown, and wore neither peruke nor cap, but 
his head, which must have been left unshaven for 
some time, was covered with a short thick growth 
of blue-black hair dashed with glittering silver at the 
temples. As Esther stood by the door, amazed and 
undecided, a sound broke from him ; a groan, end- 
ing in a long, low, sighing wail. It was a heart- 
broken sound ; the cry of one worn out with some 
intolerable misery of mind or body. In an instant 
all hesitation disappeared, all fear or desire for her- 
self ; everything vanished except the consciousness of 
her adored friend’s anguish. She moved forward 
quickly and silently, and falling on her knees by the 
table laid her hand on his arm. He made no sign, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


139 

but again that muffled wail broke forth, like the 
lamentation of a damned spirit. Trembling ex- 
cessively, she pulled him by the sleeve, and said 
in a voice so broken it was scarcely more than a 
whisper : 

“ Oh, sir ! For pity’s sake — for God’s sake ! ” 

With an impatient movement he folded his arms 
round his head so as more completely to shield his 
face, and spoke hoarsely from beneath them : “You 
confounded rascal, I thought you knew better ! Go 
— g° — go, I say ! ” 

The last words were spoken with increasing vehe- 
mence. But Esther, who had often been awe-struck 
before him, did not fear him now. He was suffering, 
how or why she knew not, and without her reverence 
for him being in any way impaired, he awoke her 
instinctive feeling of responsibility towards all suffer- 
ing creatures. The first shock over, she was com- 
paratively calm again, only thinking with painful 
intensity what she had better do. So for a minute 
or two they both remained in the same position, till 
he burst out again with greater violence than before : 

“ Knave ! Beast ! Idiot ! Go, go ! ” 

Then she touched his hand. “It is Hess,” she 
said. 

He lifted his head slowly and turned his face 
towards her, as though with reluctance. It was pale 
with the livid pallor of a dark skin no longer young, 
and the firm lines of mouth and cheek were slack- 
ened and hollowed. He looked a ghost, but hardly 
the ghost of himself. In a minute, as he realised 
Esther’s presence, the life and individuality began 
to return to his face, but in no amiable form. 

“ So, madam,” he said after a pause, with a grimace 
that did duty for a smile, “ you are here ! Ha ! 
Charming ! Pray, to what am I indebted, et c cetera P ” 

Esther was too much shocked at his appearance 
to consider how he received her. 

“ I have brought the paper you lost,” she returned 
hastily. “’Tis here. But no matter — you are ill. 
You must let me find your drops for you and send 
for Dr. Arbuthnot.” 


140 


ESTHER VANIIOMRIGH. 


He sat upright, and clutching the edge of the stool 
on which he sat with both hands, “I am not ill,” he 
said with harsh impatience. “Leave me.” 

“ You are either ill or in some great trouble,” she 
replied, “ in either case not fit to be alone. If you 
will not have my company, you must let me send 
you some other friend — though a truer one it cannot 
be. Patrick will only come home to sleep off his 
wine.” 

“Friend ! ” he cried, “ Friend ! ” 

And with a shriek of laughter he rocked himself to 
and fro on the stool. Esther was standing up now ; 
she looked at him steadily, with a severity born 
rather of amazement than of any conscious criticism 
of his conduct, and he was calm again so instanta- 
neously that she almost doubted whether it was he 
who had laughed. They were silent for a minute 
or two, looking at each other. He was apparently 
calm, but the singular blueness of his eyes had disap- 
peared ; they glittered under the heavy black eye- 
brows, each with a curious spark in it, not at a'll like 
the azure ej^es so familiar to his friends. The change 
in them made his whole face look different ; from 
having been pale, it had now flushed a dark red. 

' “You talk to me of friends, child,” he resumed 
hoarsely, but in a more normal tone, leaning forward 
and smiling at her bitterly, both his hands still clutch- 
ing the stool, “as though you expected me to believe 
in ’em, or to fancy you believed in 'em. No, no, 
Governor Huff has too much wit for that. Friends ! 
Fellows that suck your brains, suck ’em dry, dry, 
and pay you with their damned promises ; that when 
you’ve slaved and slaved and made a million enemies, 
and when they think you’re done with, fling you out 
an Irish Deanery, as you might fling a stick into the 
sea for your dog — ‘Hi ! Swim for it, sir ! ’ ” He paused 
a moment, moistened his dry lips, and drawing in his 
breath let it out again in a low fierce exclamation. 
“ But ’tis not I, ’tis they who are done with — Oxford, 
Bolingbroke. Puppets ! Pawns on the board ! Oh, 
when I am gone, they’ll know themselves and whistle 
me back, when ’tis too late. And I shall come, ay, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. j 4I 

blundering fool that I am, I shall come. The moths 
— do you remember at Kensington, Hess ? — they come 
back to frizzle where they frizzled before, don't they ? ” 

He laughed again the same sudden shrieking laugh. 
The perpendicular line was defining itself on Esther’s 
white brow ; a line which looked severe, but really 
indicated only anxiety or bewilderment. 

“I esteem your political friends as little as you 
do,” she replied, mentioning them disdainfully, “and 
thought I esteemed 'em less. But you have others — 
better ones — Mr. Gay, Mr. Pope ” 

“Mr. Addison — Mr. Steele,” — he broke in with a 
mincing accent meant to imitate her feminine voice. 
“Was that what you was going to say, miss ? Ha, ha, 
ha! Warm-hearted, generous Joseph! Steele, trueas 
— thyself ! Gay, now — Gay's a charming fellow when 
one feels charmingly. As to Pope ” — at that name he 
dropped his sneer and spoke with sombre earnestness 
— “as to Pope — never talk of him, Hesskin. He’s a 
thing I believe in, I will believe in, I tell you, Brat — 

so don't let's think of him for fear — for fear Ah ! 

Did you say he was crooked ? ” 

“I said nothing, sir,” she replied with dignity; 
“I would aim at no man’s defects of person, least of 
all at Mr. Pope's. But if I cannot name a man friend 
but you'll mock at him, I’ll bring your women friends 
to your mind — the truest, the most attached of ’em.” 
And she held her head higher. “There’s Lady Betty 
Germayne, my mother,' Molly and— myself. That’s 
four.” 

“Women's friendship ! Women's friendship ! By 
the powers, she talks as though it were a thing to 
be calculated— four female friendships to one male. 
Pshaw ! Weigh froth ! Weigh moonshine ! They're 
more weighable than the parcel of vanity and caprice 
called female friendship. Don't I know why Madam 
Van and you were all anxiety to know Mr. Gay be- 
fore I left ? Why, to be sure, she must have a poet 
in her ante-chamber like other women of quality ; for 
Madam Van is as mad as old Newcastle and thinks 
herself a duchess. And when that poor Dean that’s 
been so useful is gone, why, he's gone, and Hess 


142 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


must get another fellow to teach her how to talk and 
make the wits in love with her. Ay, I know what 
your female friendship’s worth.” 

Esther stood upright beside him. She made no 
visible motion while he spoke, but she held her head 
higher, the frown on her brow deepened, and she 
looked down at him with eyes, in which an angry 
light began to burn, and cheeks flushing with an in- 
dignant red. He tried to meet her gaze indifferently 
as he finished speaking, but his own sank beneath it, 
and before she made any answer he hung his head 
as one rebuked. 

“You dare to say so ! ” she said at last sternly. 
“And to me!” Then after a pause — “Unworthy! 
Most unworthy ! ” she ejaculated. 

Her words did not exactly represent her feeling. 
She^was more moved by horror and surprise that he 
should speak in a way so unlike and so degrading to 
himself than at his preposterous reflections on herself 
and Mrs. Vanhomrigh. But whatever the precise 
proportion in which her emotions were mingled, she 
stood there the very image of intense yet self-contained 
indignation, fixing upon him a steady look of stern 
reproof. She who had so often trembled before his 
least frown did not fear his fury now, in this feverish 
sickness of his soul. He was silent, looking at the 
table and drumming on it like a boy, half sullen, half 
ashamed. Then on a sudden, putting both hands to 
his head with a contortion of pain, “O my head ! 
my head ! ” he cried. “ O God ! — O God ! ” 

And he rolled on the table in a paroxysm of an- 
guish, moaning inarticulately either prayers or curses. 
Every physical pang that he endured created its mental 
counterpart in her, and her whole soul was concen- 
trated in a passionate prayer, if a spiritual cry so 
vague in its direction could be called a prayer, for 
help for the body and mind of him laid there in 
anguish and disarray. 

At length the paroxysm subsided, almost as sud- 
denly as it had come, but for a time he seemed un- 
able to speak. Shading his brow with his hand, he 
looked at her from time to time with a faint, pleading, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


M3 

almost timid smile. This piteous smile, so unlike 
any look she had ever seen or fancied on those haughty 
features, was more than Esther could bear. Her 
breath came quick, a strangling sob rose in her throat, 
and the hot tears blinded her eyes. But he had too 
often, quite mistakenly, praised her as above the 
female weakness of tears, and she had too often 
blushed to think of those tears of hers by the river at 
Windsor, and those in the Sluttery, to weep again in 
his company. No, she would rather choke than do 
it. So she could not answer that pleading look with 
a kind one, but faced him with drooped eyelids, lips 
severely close, flushed cheeks and heaving bosom. 
He spoke at last in a languid, hesitating voice, but 
calm and like his own ; no longer with the confused 
articulation or the fierce grinding tones which had 
shocked Esther when he was talking to her before. 

“ I beg your pardon, Essie, very humbly, yours 
and good Madam Van’s as well. You’d grant me 
grace if you only knew what a bad head I have. Oh, 
such a racking head, Hess ! ‘The pains of hell gat 
hold upon me, last night when I came home from 
Parson’s Green, and all because of the least bit of 
fruit from his glass-house the mad Peterborough 
would have me to eat. No, I’ll not do it again — fruit 
always did give me a bad head. You’ve forgiven 
me, Brat, ha’n’t you ? ” 

But Esther could not yet answer or meet that anx- 
ious, humble look of his. 

“Essie!” he cried pleadingly, “Essie!” and 
stretched out his hand towards hers as though to touch 
it, yet without doing so. 

“Hess!” he cried again. “What! You can’t 
forgive your poor friend that hardly knows what he 
says when he cries aloud in his misery ? Can’t you 
forgive me, little Hesskin ? Do — do now forgive me. ” 

Esther was still kneeling like one in prayer with 
her cheek leaned on her clasped hands, but now the 
colour had ebbed from it and left her very pale, and 
the resolute lines of her lips had softened. She lifted 
to his her great eyes, luminous with tears repressed 
and an irrepressible fire of passion, and he started as 
he met them. 


144 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“ Forgive you? ” she cried in a voice whose deep 
vibrating music thrilled him in spite of himself ; and 
then the same words again, but set to some new har- 
mony — “ Forgive you? Why, I love you ! ” 

The mental shock was sufficient to have thrust him 
back again into that Inferno from which he had just 
escaped, but it had the opposite effect. The weak, 
helpless feeling in the brain, that usually remained 
with him for long after such an attack, passed sud- 
denly almost entirely away. Yes, it was a shock. 
For weeks a dim troubling something, to which he 
obstinately refused to give the shape of an idea, had 
been stirring in the depths of his mind ; and he had 
kept it down there by main force. Now it sprang up 
before him, full-armed, like Minerva. 

“I am obliged to you, Essie,” he said. “I should 
have been sorry if I had offended you past your for- 
giveness. But now you talk as wildly as I did. 
Had we not been friends so long, I might misunder- 
stand your meaning.” 

“Ah ! ” she cried, leaping to her feet, and tossing 
back her hood with a fierce, impatient gesture, “ you 
wish to misunderstand it ! You that have plagued 
me, tortured me with your questions, now you would 
fain not hear the answer to ’em all. You that have 
told me a thousand times to show you my heart, now 
you will not see it. But you know, you know what 
you are to me ” — and a tearless sob strangled her 
voice. 

“Your friend, Essie,” he said gravely, flinching 
before this outburst of a passion it had been beyond 
his power to imagine. 

“ Friend ! ” she cried, “ Friend ! ” and laughed, not 
bitterly, but with a kind of wild tenderness. “Could 
Adam call the God that shaped him out of dust his 
‘ friend ’ ? No, he must worship, he must adore Him. 
You shaped me. I was nothing, nothing, before you 
taught me how to think, how to feel, and to love 
what you love and despise what you despise. I am 
the creature of your hands— you made me and I am 
yours. You may be sorry for’t, but 'tis too late now 
to help it.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


*45 

Swift made an attempt to assume that awful air 
with which he was wont to cow the boldest of his 
friends or foes, but he felt the’ attempt to be a failure. 

“Hush, Essie ! ” he cried. “What you are say- 
ing is very wrong; ; tis rank blasphemy, and I will 
not hear it.” 

Esther turned from him and paced the room for a 
minute or two in a silence which Swift did not break, 
with her head thrown back, and biting her under-lip, 
as was her wont. Looking on the ground, not at 
him, who had once more shaded his face with one 
hand, she began again : 

“We are neither of us enthusiasts, and I cannot 
pick my words. O that I could find one sharp 
enough to cut right through my breast and show you 
my heart ! Once you said I should cease to be your 
friend on the day when I was afraid to pin my heart 
to my sleeve-ruffles. Yes, those were your very 
words — ‘pin it to my sleeve-ruffles/ for your inspec- 
tion. You forget, but I remember. Now you don't 
love to see it, but 'tis too late to go back. If I said 
I worshipped you as one worships God, I spoke 
wrongly. God is a long way off, and we have never 
seen Him, but we know He cannot need us. But 
you ” — she paused before him with clasped hands, 
like a worshipper before a shrine — “you are far 
indeed above other men, yet you are a man, and here 

among us, and you have often Ah ! do not try 

to deny it — little, nothing as I am compared to you, 
you have often, often needed me ! How can I choose 
but worship, adore, — love you ? ” 

And as she ended, she fell on her knees once more, 
and bending over his hand, that still lay stretched out 
on the table, touched it with a swift hot kiss, and 
bowed her forehead on her folded arms. 

There was a sharp tap at the door. Some one 
must have mounted the stairs unheard by either of 
them. Quick as lightning Esther sprang up and 
pulled her hood over her face. Swift made a dash 
for his peruke, which lay on a neighbouring chair, 
but he had not got his head well into it, when the 
door was flung open, and loudly announced by an 
invisible some one, Mr. Erasmus Lewis walked in. 

io 


146 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


CHAPTER X. 

The new Deanery at St. Patrick’s was a spacious 
house altogether and had a spacious kitchen, pro- 
portioned to the lavish hospitality of the ex-Dean 
Sterne who had built it. Now the handful of fire 
penned up in a corner of the big grate seemed to blink 
ruefully at the very scanty supply of pots and pans 
that was stretched out in attenuated rows on the big 
dresser opposite. Time had been when the ruddy 
glow of a long bank of red coals was reflected from a 
whole battalion of copper vessels, jostling and mount- 
ing on each other for want of space, whilst great 
gaudy porcelain tureens standing beneath them had 
suggested more immediate visions of company and 
good cheer. But the new arrangements were Mrs. 
Johnson’s own, and their very scantiness made them 
her pride. The Dean would have to allow that not 
a superfluous penny had been spent. Yet the bills 
were plaguey deep for all that, and he who was so 
particular about his expenditure would expect a very 
exact account to be kept, and the correct balance to 
be handed over. Now Mrs. Johnson, being born of 
poor and careful parents and also in every respect 
the Dean’s faithful pupil, was a severe economist, 
but cyphering was to her a very serious matter. So 
now while she was mixing a certain favourite cake in 
preparation for his expected return, she kept studying 
with an anxious brow a little pocket account-book 
and occasionally the contents of a purse. For the 
balance was not right, and though a portion of her 
income came from the Dean, and she would will- 
ingly have sacrificed her last sixpence to him as a 
gift, she would not have defrauded herself of a penny 
in a matter of business, to gain him any earthly ad- 
vantage ; an idiosyncrasy of which he had no right 
to complain, as it was due to his own training, though 
in himself a stronger reasoning faculty often inter- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


147 

vened to traverse and control such follies. She had 
just received a letter from Swift written at Ches- 
ter, and Dingley had gone round to the owners of the 
craft on board which his passage was taken, to know 
when it might be expected. 

There was a sound of pattens in the passage, for 
though it was June the vreather was rainy. Esther 
Johnson lifted her doughy hands out of the cake and 
hoped she would have time to run round to Ormond’s 
Quay and change her dress before Pdfr. should arrive. 

“ Lud, my dear, 'tis terrible stormy weather!” 
cried Dingley, coming in without her pattens, but 
with the wreck of a big oilskin umbrella in her hand. 
“’Tis a wonder I an’t blown away. For pity’s sake 
look at your umbrella.” 

“Well, Dingley, well?” 

“Sure, Hetty, I’m vastly concerned about it. But 
a scurvy puff of wind caught it as I came round the 
corner of Bride Street, and there it was turned round 
and staring me in the face as you might say.” 

“For God’s sake never mind the umbrella, D. ! 
When will he be here ? ” 

“Oh, immediately almost ; to-morrow evening at 
latest. ” 

“ Immediately, i’ faith! Why, how comes the 
plaguey ship to be so behind ? ” 

“ Mr. Kinahan says on account of the foul weather, 
and the Royal Anne being so deep in the water with 
her cargo aboard. Lud ! I wish we may get him 
back safe and sound. Mr. Kinahan says there have 
been more ships cast away this year than he ever 
remembers at this season.” 

Evidently Mrs. Dingley and Mr. Kinahan had en- 
joyed a grand shaking of heads over the possible if 
not probable fate of the Royal Anne and her passen- 
gers. Mrs. Johnson was too cool-headed a woman 
to enjoy this sort of excitement under any circum- 
stances. 

“You’re a fool, Dingley, with your Mr. Kinahan. 
Pdfr. is all prudence, and will not cross if there’s 
danger. But ’tis mighty provoking we should have 
put that beef-pudding into the oven.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


148 

And she ran to take it out. There ensued a wran- 
gle, for Mrs. Dingley, who had an excellent appetite, 
was in favour of leaving the pudding where it was. 
Having been worsted in the fray, she had time to say 
she had found a letter for Mrs. Johnson at Mr. Kina- 
han’s, from London, but not addressed in Swift’s 
handwriting. Who could it be from ? Hetty up to 
her elbows in dough, and full of her disappointment, 
bade Dingley take it away. It could be of no conse- 
quence, and she would read it some other time. 

When the cake was made and put into the oven, 
and Mrs. Johnson was at the scullery pump washing 
those strong workaday hands and arms, which 
seemed out of harmony with her delicately beautiful 
face, there came a great knocking at the front door. 
It was the Stoytes and the Walls, with a crowd of 
little Stoytes and Walls behind them, all come to see 
Mrs. Johnson’s new arrangements at the Dean’s lodg- 
ings, and to ask when he was expected. Mr. Stoyte 
was a merchant of the City and Dr. Walls an Arch- 
deacon. They were old Dublin acquaintances of 
Swift’s, and with their wives and his predecessor, 
Dean Sterne, had been Mrs. Johnson’s principal asso- 
ciates in his absence. For in spite of her beauty and 
other uncommon attractions, her social circle was 
small. The cause of this was twofold. People be- 
longing to the upper classes grow up at the centre of 
such a web of acquaintanceships, that wherever they 
go, at. least within the limits of their own country, 
they are sure to find some scattered threads of it still 
about them. But Esther was of too humble origin 
for this to be the case, at least in any way that could 
advantage her. Swift’s sister, Mrs. Fenton, who had 
some connection with the Temples, either to revenge 
herself on her brother for the disgust he had evinced 
at her own marriage with a tradesman, or because 
she guessed what became of some of his income, had 
spread exaggerated reports of the menial position oc- 
cupied by Mrs. Johnson in the Moor Park household. 
Besides the disadvantage of birth, graver in those 
days than these, there was undoubtedly an equivo- 
calness about her relations to Swift that all the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGIT. 


149 

hampering precautions with which he surrounded 
their intercourse could not entirely dissipate.. She 
had followed him to Ireland, really at his own sug- 
gestion, but according to the common gossip of ac- 
quaintances to force herself upon him in marriage ; 
and for eleven years she had been his constant com- 
panion, never staying under his roof, but always 
lodging in his neighbourhood, whether at Dublin or at 
Laracor. It was true that their party was invariably 
three-cornered ; Mrs. Dingley was always there. 
But it was not necessary for the scandal-mongers to 
believe that. The world’s boasted sagacity even yet 
means chiefly a dull conviction that every one is like 
every one else, or if they are not, then they ought to 
be ; that the average human being has low standards, 
and that one who is not average should be regarded 
with peculiar suspicion. The common standard was 
lower in most respects under the last of the Stuarts 
than it is to-day, and there was a proportionately 
greater difficulty in believing that a higher one could 
exist. So all things considered, it reflected credit on 
the discretion and general character of the Dean and 
Mrs. Johnson that, so long as they were alive, the 
voice of censure, though not silent, spoke only in 
whispers. 

The empty-sounding house now echoed to loud 
hearty voices with speech not innocent of brogue. 
Its walls, papered above the wainscotes, were bare 
except for the marks of Dean Sterne’s pictures. Only 
a few rooms were furnished, and those scantily, 
with such furniture as could be immediately spared 
from the little vicarage at Laracor, and sundry plain 
second-hand articles. Mrs. Johnson was scrupulous- 
ly clean and neat in her household ways, and could 
by incessant harrying make even an Irish servant so 
while under her supervision, but she had little taste, 
either natural or acquired, and even to the eye of a 
formal generation there was a dryness and primness, 
a want of home-like grace, about her domestic 
arrangements. However, the visitors, belonging as 
they did to the more good-natured side of St. George’s 
Channel, found plenty of pleasant things to say 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


I 5° 

about the big dreary house ; reserving such unpleas- 
ant things as could not but occur to them, since 
they had known it under a much more comfortable 
aspect, for their supper-party at the Archdeacon’s. 

The sky was dark with clouds and it was almost 
dusk, when, the inspection completed from garret 
to cellar, they all stood in the flagged hall, as those 
stand who “often take leave but seem loth to depart ; ” 
and never in Dr. Sterne’s most hospitable days Had 
the sounds of merriment been heartier there. Mrs. 
Johnson, quite recovered from her disappointment, 
was the most animated of all, and would pay no 
attention to Dingley’s ostentatious gloom and hints 
of the disappointment which might befall those who 
reckoned too much on the new Dean’s arrival. She 
put them down to the poor woman’s chagrin at being 
unable to impress her with a due sense of Pdfr. s 
perils by sea. Mrs. Johnson was a capital mimic ; 
she had just been reproducing for them Arch- 
bishop King, as he appeared coming to ask her 
if Dean Swift was home yet, and if not, why not. 
“Then pray, Madam, am I to understand that you 
are in occupation of this Deanery?” — she had just 
asked herself in a voice of pompous horror, rolling 
her eyes severely and sucking her lips in a so droll 
caricature of the Archiepiscopal manner, that a roar 
of laughter drowned the noise of a modest knock at 
the front door. The performance was proceeding 
when the knock came again, this time the least bit 
louder. Mr. Stoyte opened the great mahogany 
door a little way, prepared to dismiss some impor- 
tunate inquirer for the Dean. Then with an excla- 
mation, he threw it wide. A tall figure in a great 
drugget overcoat and a large clerical hat stood there 
dripping with rain and black against the outer twi- 
light. It was the friend they were all expecting, one 
of them eagerly expecting, to see in the course of a 
few hours ; but for a minute they stood awkwardly 
silent, like riotous boys when the school-master 
appears. Swift too, crossing the threshold of his future 
home for the first time, wet and weary from a toil- 
some journey, paused in surprise and some annoy- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


151 

ance at finding himself in the midst of a large party ; 
some old friends whom he could have spared at that 
moment, others children and young people grown 
out of knowledge. But he was the first to recover 
himself. 

“ Why, Goody,” he said to Mrs. Stoyte who stood 
nearest to him, “ where’s your civility ? You stare 
at me as though I were Banquo’s ghost.” 

“Welcome, Mr. Dean, welcome home,” cried the 
lady thus addressed, taking his proffered hand and 
offering her cheek for a friendly salute. “ Sure, sir, 
you were something of a ghost in your manner of 
appearing, which must excuse us, but you’re wel- 
come indeed back to old Dublin.” 

Then followed immediately a great shaking of 
hands and some decorous kissing, as manners then 
permitted or enjoined among friends, and a chorus 
of welcome back to his old friends and the new 
Deanery and congratulations on his at length taking 
possession of his own. 

The person whom his eyes had first sought when he 
stood on the threshold was among the last whom 
he greeted. Mrs. Johnson, by nature calm and long 
accustomed to prudence in her relations with Swift, 
had no thought of rushing forward to greet him. 
After a few minutes, which seemed a long time, he 
came to her, took her hand and kissed her cheek in 
a manner studiously the same as that in which he 
had saluted the other ladies, though his smile bright- 
ened perceptibly. The moment had arrived of which 
she had dreamed every night before falling asleep 
for three years, and although she did not analyse her 
feelings she felt strangely blank and cold, and really 
vexed because she had not had time to change her 
dress before he saw her. She had dreamed of meeting 
in so many ways. Sometimes of waiting on the quay 
and watching the sail of his homeward-bound ship 
for a long while before he landed. Sometimes of 
waiting in her own parlour, or latterly at the Deanery, 
till he should come in and take both her hands and 
hold them tight in his, and begin at once to say a 
thousand silly tender things in their own “little 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


l 5 2 

language.” In her dreams even the eternal Dingley 
had somehow been got rid of for the moment. But 
in the reality, not only Dingley but a little crowd of 
more irksome spectators were present. The Stoytes 
and Walls, however, soon considerately left the tired, 
rain-soaked traveller to Mrs. Johnson's and Mrs. 
Dingley ’s kind care, and they and Bridget had enough 
to do to find dry clothes and prepare the supper. 

Swift too was depressed and disappointed. He 
was conscious that his long absence in London had 
slackened the ties of tender intimacy that bound him 
to Hetty Johnson, but he honestly believed that he 
had but to meet her for all to be as before. Already 
a few days earlier he had gone forth in spirit to meet 
her, and had made his heart beat to the old tune, as 
he read her last letter alone on the walls of Chester. 
When Ppt. had begun to exchange journals with 
Pdfr. she had done a foolish thing, for not only was 
the life she had to record monotonous and already . 
familiar to him, but also, though thanks to him she 
could write better than many much finer ladies, her 
epistolary style was disappointing. The excitement 
of his approaching return had given freshness and 
feeling to her last letter. The place in which it had 
been read too had been favourable to it. As he paced 
the peaceful city walls which men yet living remem- 
bered as the scene of grim battle and bloodshed — 
behind him the grey towers of the Cathedral, silent 
except for the chiming bells, before him the wide 
green lowlands through which the river flows broad- 
ening to the sea — he realised for the first time that 
London was already far away, and that to-morrow 
England too would be left behind. Then with graver 
purpose he repeated to himself what he had cried out 
before to the Vanhomrighs, that when once he got to 
Ireland he meant to forget everything in England. 
He had sent off a lively letter from Chester to Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh, playfully directed, “At the sign of the 
Three Widows, St. James’ Street,” and studiously 
addressed to all three ladies. But a shorter, more 
personal note had found its way to Essie from St. 
Albans. His indisposition had prevented his leaving 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


*53 

London at the time he had intended, and his interview 
with Essie in Bury Street had not been the last. 

Up to the time when he became aware that Esther 
loved him, he cannot be reckoned very blame- 
worthy in his conduct to her. He had always been 
something of a flirt, but a divine of five-and- forty 
seemed most unlikely to make a dangerous impression 
on the heart of a girl accustomed to see some of the 
finest society in London. It was as yet but early in 
that eighteenth century which afterwards so success- 
fully cultivated the valuable Art of Friendship between 
men and women. Abroad indeed, where women 
enjoyed greater consideration, a Descartes and a 
Leibnitz had already given excellent examples of 
such friendships, and Swift himself had in early life 
owed much to his frank and pleasant intimacy with 
the daughters of Lord Berkeley. But born in an age 
of idle gallantry and intrigue, he may be pardoned 
for not having always realised when he was sinning 
against the unwritten rules of friendship ; as he cer- 
tainly did in his relations with Esther Vanhomrigh, 
both by the flatteries he constantly mingled with his 
apparent rough sincerity, and by his general want of 
openness. 

These faults, patent enough in his letters, were ex- 
aggerated in the verses he wrote, ostensibly in her 
honour, but really in his own. They were not only 
full of flattery and vanity ; they were positively 
untruthful. How untruthful his habit of seeing life 
through a distorting medium made him probably 
unaware. But whatever his former or subsequent 
blindness to the errors of his own conduct, he could 
not but partially acknowledge them in those two 
days following Esther’s avowal, which he spent 
alone and confined to his lodgings. Shame, dis- 
appointment, grief, he felt most truly for himself 
and her. Political chagrins became for a time 
matters of minor importance, and he thought of 
little else but Esther and her strange, unhappy 
passion. He did not confess to himself that there 
had been a moment some two months back, when 
it had pleased him to make sure that no other man 


154 


ESTHER VA NHOMRIGH. 


occupied a higher place in her heart than himself. 
He did confess that he could, if he would, have sus- 
pected his place there to be too high for her happi- 
ness. But no. He had refused to be a coxcomb, 
and his approaching departure had seemed a natural 
solution of the problem, if it existed. He was fond 
of saying to her that if ever she became the victim of 
love, she had only to apply to him for a cure, a cer- 
tain cure in the case of one like herself possessed of 
a will and a reason. Now must he keep his promise ; 
but, alas ! the surgeon had a trembling hand. He 
who could so savagely carve his adversaries in pub- 
lic, could not bear to inflict the smallest wound in 
private, even on an indifferent person, much less on 
a friend. The good and the evil in him were alike 
to be fatal to Esther. Vanity was for the moment 
silenced, but he who disbelieved in romantic passion 
had become the object of such a passion. He was 
like a man who, having always scoffed at the super- 
natural, at length has seen a ghost ; behind his 
amazement and fear of the thing, there is a strange, 
reluctant, fascinated desire to see it again. The appa- 
rition could not have been real ; he would like to 
touch it, to make sure it was a delusion. So on the 
third day Swift went round to St. James’ Street, to 
convince Esther Vanhomrigh and himself that her 
passion for him was a delusion. 

Mrs. Vanhomrigh and Molly were out. Esther 
appeared alone, cold, haughty, pale ; as different as 
possible from the flushed eloquent Esther of three 
days ago. Swift thought to put them both more at 
ease by chatting of his health and his journey, but 
she answered him with sombre monosyllables. He 
went on to tell her that his bad head had put every- 
thing out of his mind, and most of all any nonsense 
she might have talked last Saturday, which indeed 
he had never taken seriously. But she brushed his 
pretence of misunderstanding and forgetfulness on 
one side, and with a strange unnatural calmness told 
him that if she had forfeited his esteem, she would 
prefer at whatever cost to part from him finally then 
and there. Yet if that were so, she could not but 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


155 

regard him as less perfectly just and reasonable than 
she had always believed, as in confessing to him the 
real state of her feelings she had only obeyed his 
own oft-repeated maxims. She had never pretended 
to agree with him in his contempt for love ; a man 
to whom life was prodigal of interests might easily 
spare that, but she, confined in a miserable narrow 
feminine existence, could not afford to despise the 
one good thing it offered. Being a woman she must 
love, and being his pupil she could only love what 
he had taught her to prefer. Y outh, fine clothes, rank, 
wealth, he had taught her to hold cheap, and to value 
nothing but wit and worth. Where had she found 
these more than — so much as — in himself? And then 
she went on to speak of him as he had seemed to 
her, not as some women might have done, adorning 
him with a miscellany of gifts and virtues not his 
own, but painting a portrait so like, and yet so subtly 
flattered by the rich colouring of love, that Swift must 
have been devoid of human vanity had he not looked 
on it with pleasure. This was what in his happiest 
moments he himself hoped he was. So from the 
confused protestations of inalterable esteem and 
affection with which at first he had interrupted her, 
he went on to tell her in a hundred different forms, 
what by some sophistry he persuaded himself was 
true — that he had never been in love ; and to add 
what was reasonable — that he was too old now to 
begin. And the magnetism of a character stronger 
and more decided in some directions than his own, 
and the old habit of sympathy and tenderness for 
Essie, and also flattered vanity, drew him on into 
protestations of a warm pre-eminent friendship for 
her, not far removed from love. Yet when Mrs. Van- 
homrigh had returned, and he had bidden them all 
good-bye, was it in sober earnest or in irony that he 
cried out just before he closed the door behind him ? — 
“You'll forget me, madams, in spite of your fine 
speeches. No matter, for I propose to forget you 
everyone — statesmen, Churchmen, women, wits, I’ll 
forget every one of you, when once I'm safe across 
the Channel ! " 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


156 

And now he was across the Channel, but a thou- 
sand bitter thoughts bred in England pursued him 
still, and made his head and heart ache together. 
How empty and poverty-stricken looked the big house 
he must now call his home ! His lodgings in London 
had been simple enough, but for three years he had 
been accustomed to frequent great houses sumptu- 
ously appointed ; and a certain smaller house, how 
home-like it had been ! 

Yes, it was a pity Ppt. had not had time to 
make her toilette, for she was really not looking her 
best in her holland working dress and plain cap. So 
it appeared to him that she had lost some of her 
beauty in these three years, which was not really the 
case. But it was not the common spell of beauty 
that had drawn and bound him to Hetty Johnson, 
and he would not much have minded its diminution, 
if he had not been conscious too of a certain mental 
estrangement between them. 

But Ppt. must not know how joyless was his 
home-coming. Arm in arm, though followed by 
the inevitable Dingley, they walked from room to 
room, Mrs. Hetty proudly pointing out her clever 
devices for saving expense, which she knew Pdfr. 
did not love, though sure no one was so generous 
*to his friends. At every room they entered the chill 
of the large empty house, where he must live alone, 
struck deeper into his soul. But Hetty did not guess 
. that for all her quick wit ; he would not for the world 
have let her guess it. No; she was “ dea’ char' 
Ppt.,” and “ fifty thousand times dear li’ dallah,” 
and “ diverting witch,” and all the sweet familiar 
names ; and as he acted bravely the old part, he 
hated himself for not being in truth the old Poor-Dear- 
Fond-Rogue. By the time they had left the small 
supper-table in the big dining-parlour, Mrs. Hetty 
had quite got over her first disappointment in her 
friend's home-coming, and sat knitting and chatting 
in the great elbow-chair, as happy and pretty as pos- 
sible. It was the old chair she had always sat in at 
Laracor, and she had a long story to tell of how she 
had made that lazy impudent rascal Parvisol, the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


157 


bailiff, see that all the geese’s down was kept the 
whole time the Doctor was away, and how in con- 
sequence there had been no new feather-beds to buy 
for the Deanery ; and besides she had fresh stuffed 
the cushions of this chair, and covered it all with 
her old chintz gown, the one with pink and red 
flowers on it, that Pdfr. used to like so much, did he 
remember? 

“Faith, do I, P. T. On my conscience ’twas so 
smart it might have made Miss there pass for a hand- 
some woman — in a small church or at a country fair, 
might it not, D. D. ? ” 

Here was an opportunity for Dingley, who had 
been trying all this while to make him see she was 
offended with him. 

“Sure, Mr. Dean,” she replied, pinching up her 
features, “there’s many persons in Dublin, not to 
speak of the country, that still think Mrs. Johnson 
extreme handsome. I have heard our late excellent 
Dean protest in this very room, that there was ladies 
made toasts of in London that could not hold a 
candle to her, and Dr. Tisdale, who knows the 
world, frequently protested that Mrs. Johnson was 
the most elegant woman of his acquaintance.” 

“Tisdale know the world!” exclaimed Swift 
snappishly. ‘ * Ay, Tisdale’s world. I’d rather know 
my own back-yard.” 

“ Pray now, you silly D. D.,” cried Hetty, laughing 
and blushing with pleasure at being complimented 
so before Pdfr., “when was it you was seen 
kissing the Blarney stone ? As to you, sir, you shall 
henceforth spare the poor Tisdale creature, who has 
not very long to live ; I hear he has fallen into a 
yaller-green sickness since he heard the news of 
your Deanship’s promotion.” 

“What, doth he envy me?” asked Swift. “Tell 
me that again, little P. T. There’s one that envies 
me ! This is mighty diverting, and the Lord knows 
I want diverting.” 

“To be sure he does, Dear Rogue, and there’s 
plenty of others that thought no great things of the 
Vicar of Laracor, fit to burst with envy at seeing the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


158 

grand place he s got. The Archbishop too must be 
mightily disappointed, for he was so positive the 
Queen would never give you aught worth your tak- 
ing.” 

“Who was it learned you to knit, Pretty Pet?” 
asked Swift, making no reply to her observation."* 

“Mrs. Walls,” returned Hetty ; “and now I can 
knit stockings without looking at 'em and talking all 
the while, as you may see.” 

“Confound Goody Walls !” he cried. “In Lon- 
don, you know, my dear, the ladies would think it 
uncivil to be knitting stockings when their gallants 
was courting 'em. Your click-clacking needles drive 
me distracted — or would, did they not remind the Poor 
Fond Rogue that his dearest, sweetest friend, who 
has never been absent from his mind, never, so help 
him, all this while, sits beside him again in the flesh 
— and may she never let him go away from her 
again, to fall into Lord knows what follies and mis- 
eries ! ”, 

“Indeed, Dearest Rogue, if you was to settle in 
England, Dingley and I would not remain behind. 
Yet though I cannot help fancying you do not love 
to come back to poor Ireland, I believe in the end 
you will be best satisfied to stay there. Yes, Pdfr. 
will end by loving Ireland better than England, like 
Ppt. 'Tis a freer place for man — which is you, and 
beast — which is me.” 

So the evening passed in affectionate trifling talk, 
in which if Hetty Johnson and her friend were often 
at cross-purposes, he alone was aware of it. And 
this was not owing to any dulness of perception on 
her part, but to his own self-control and careful ten- 
derness. He would sooner have died than have 
returned after three long years only to wound a kind 
and faithful heart. 

It was past ten o’clock when Patrick lighted the 
lantern to escort the ladies back to those new 
lodgings on Ormond’s Quay, which certainly Pdfr. 
must visit to-morrow. Mrs. Johnson, still full of ex- 
hilaration, must needs go on laughing at and talking 
to Patrick, as he headed the procession of three 


ESTHER VANH0MR1GH. 


159 

which came out of the garden door of the Deanery. 
It had left off raining now, and up beyond the dark 
Cathedral tower, the thin clouds showed a pale blur 
of light where the moon was trying to appear. From 
the moment the Deanery door closed behind them, 
Mrs. Dingley, who walked last, had been endeav- 
ouring to attract her friend’s attention. As they 
reached the narrow entrance of St. Patrick Street, the 
moon burst out, lighting up on one side a long row 
of huddled gables nodding to their fall, and on the 
other showing the points and pinnacles of similar 
antique houses, mingled with the straight lines of 
some brand-new ones, in black relief against the sky. 

“Now, my good Patrick,” said Mrs. Dingley, “ ’tis 
plainly light enough for us to see the puddles on this 
side of the street, and as I have somewhat to say to 
Mrs. Johnson, I beg you will walk on the other.” 

“Lord, Dingley,” laughed Mrs. Johnson, “what 
can you have to say to me ? Nothing so pleasant, 
I’ll be bound, as Patrick here, who has been playing 
a very great part in the world since we saw him last. 
He tells me his master was looked on as the greatest 
wit in London above stairs, but below stairs where 
Pat was, it seems they knew of a better. Come now, 
Patrick, continue the story of your laced hat, which 
I can tell you I am in a prodigious hurry to see.” 

Mrs. Dingley, however, was in earnest, and Pat- 
rick diplomatically retired. She had now got a letter 
out of the big pocket that hung beneath her skirt. It 
had been burning a hole there for hours. 

“ Hetty child,” she said solemnly, “ I believe you 
have forgotten this letter. Tis from your mother, 
and alas ! she has very ill news for you.” 

“Iam concerned to hear it,” replied Hetty. “The 
Dean had heard nothing on’t before he left.” 

“The Dean had heard nothing on't ! ” snorted Mrs. 
Dingley, her wrath beginning to overflow ; “no, no, 
why should any one tell him, since he would be the 
first to know the truth on’t? Now prepare yourself, 
my poor child, for something very surprising.” 

“ Plague take you, D. D.,” returned Hetty, notable 
to think of anything that would incurably distress her 


1 60 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

on this happiest of evenings. “ Be plain. You have 
always fifty words to one meaning/’ 

“O’tis indeed a cruel, false, perfidious conduct! 
I never could have believed it of him.” 

Hetty snatched the open letter from Dingley’s hand 
with an impatient exclamation. • 

“ Indeed, Hetty, you need be in no such haste. 
But if you must know what your mother says, His 
this. She hath it from a sure hand that the new Dean 
of St. Patrick is shortly to be married, the lady young 
and a lortin.” 

Mrs. Johnson laughed a loud, somewhat startled, 
but incredulous laugh.. 

‘ * Good God, Dingley ! ” she cried, * ‘ what silly stuff 
is this you talk? I thought my mother had more 
sense than to write me these paltry inventions the 
Temples ever love to spread about Doctor Swift.” 

“You’re wrong there, Esther. ’Tis no invention 
at all, but your mother had it from Mr. Erasmus 
Lewis, who met her walking in the Park, and very 
right she did to tell you of it. ” 

“Pooh! Mr. Lewis must be in his dotage. And 
let me tell you, D. D., you take a great liberty in 
opening my letters. If you was let read Pdfr/s, 
why, there were reasons for that. But now, madam, 
you will please leave the rest alone.” 

“ Highty-tighty, miss ! ” cried Dingley, and was 
silent a minute or so in indignation ; then she resumed, 
“ I always knew no good would come of these strange 
ways of his and yours: I was sure you had better 
have taken Tisdale, if Dr. Swift would not come for- 
ward honestly, and be married like any other woman. 
What right had he to get between a pretty young miss 
and her lover, and yet never to talk of marrying her 
himself? I have bade Mrs. Walls and Mrs. Stojde 
take notice fifty times that I have said there was some- 
thing odd and slippery about him, and harm would 
come of it, and now see how it’s all fallen out, just as 
I foretold. O, the falsevillain ! ” 

“Dingley,” said Hetty with cold severity, “I will 
not hear you speak so unseemly of our great, our 
generous benefactor. If you cannot constrain your- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


161 

self to be silent before me alone, I will call Patrick. 
You will scarce, I believe, vilify him before his own 
footman.” 

But Dingley, whose terror of Swift had alone en- 
abled her to keep silence for so long, was now not to 
be controlled. So Mrs. Johnson, thrusting the un- 
lucky letter deep into her pocket to read by herself, 
left her and crossed the road and walked home with 
Patrick. When she was retiring to rest she again 
addressed Mrs. Dingley, but only to say in a voice 
full of haughty firmness, that on no pretext whatever 
was she to hear any more of this nonsense about the 
Dean ; who would be horribly angry with D. D., if 
it should come to his ears. 

But the grey dawn, that surprises the June night 
before it has well hushed the world, found a candle 
still burning in a certain upper room on Ormond's 
Quay, and a woman, very pale between the blackness 
of her loosened hair and the whiteness of her pillow, 
writing, writing in bed. * The two letters she wrote 
were both short, and one, that to her mother, simple ; 
the other, to Mr. Erasmus Lewis, was diplomatic and 
took a great deal of thought. The ingenuous Mr. 
Ford had talked to her about these Vanhomrighs the 
last time that he was in Dublin, and in consequence 
she had asked about them next time she wrote to 
Pdfr. ; but though it was plain her friend was con- 
stantly at their house, he had said nothing in reply, 
except that they moved in the best society. Now, 
under pretence of rebuking Mr. Lewis for putting 
materials for gossip about the Dean into the hands of 
any one, especially one like her mother, connected 
with the Temple family, she managed very cleverly 
to draw him on the subject of the Vanhomrighs. She 
had finished before it was broad daylight, but she 
could not sleep. She lay staring wide-awake, re- 
flecting how frightfully she would look to-morrow 
after her unwonted vigil, and how foolish it was to 
think twice of this nonsense about her poor dearest 
fondest Rogue. Yet still she thought not twice, but 
many times about it. 

And the same dawn, creeping in at the tall windows 

ii 


\6i 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH i 


of the Deanery, found the large bed so carefully 
stuffed for the Dean with the feathers of those Laracor 
geese, empty and undisturbed. But as the grey 
light filtered through the thin curtains of the dining- 
parlour, and a dying candle flared up for a moment 
as though to meet it, there was visible the form of a 
man seated in the large chintz-covered elbow-chair. 
His face was hidden, for he sat huddled up and 
bowed across the arm of the chair ; and whether he 
slept, or merely lay quiescent in a dull stupor of 
misery, following on some more active suffering or 
despair, no one could have said. But the next morn- 
ing, when the neighbours hastened to pay their re- 
spects to the new Dean, the Dean was sick and would 
see no one, absolutely no one 


CHAPTER XI. 

All the high red-cushioned pews in St. Patrick’s were 
well occupied on the day when Dr. Swift was to be 
installed. It was principally harmless curiosity and 
love of assisting at whatever was going forward in 
the town that drew together this crowd of respectable 
people ; but the curiosity of all could not be con- 
sidered harmless. For Swift, whom Dublin was 
hereafter to deify, was at this time unpopular. The 
fact was accounted for partly by his secession from 
the Whig party which predominated there, partly by 
his marked individuality. It is said that some very 
humble and remote connections of ours all wag their 
tails the same way, and that if one appears who wags 
it in another direction, he is immediately torn to 
pieces by his fellows. Certainly Swift, figuratively 
speaking, wagged his tail in quite the opposite way to 
most of his fellows. Besides, as plain Vicar of Lara- 
cor he had wrung from the Government by his per- 
sonal influence a concession for the Irish Church 
which several of the bishops had failed to obtain. 
This naturally made him an object of suspicion to 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. . 163 

his superiors, nor did the lower clergy love him 
better. 

Not only was the Cathedral full, but a group of 
idlers had assembled in the porch. Those who sat 
at the lower end of the church became aware that 
there was something of unusual interest passing out 
there. Every one seemed pressing round the large 
board on which parish notices usually figured ; there 
was a muttering, as of something being deciphered 
more or less slowly by various readers, and a hum 
of subdued talk and laughter. The crowd increased, 
and several gentlemen from within went to add them- 
selves to it. A large sheet of manuscript had been 
pinned up to the board ; it was verse, and written 
in a somewhat crabbed hand, so that it could not 
easily be read. But a man jumping up on a bench 
just below began to read fluently, in a voice more 
loud than decorous : 

“ To-day this temple gets a Dean, 

Of parts and fame uncommon; 

Used both to pray and to profane, 

To serve both God and Mammon. 

“This place he got by wit and rhyme 
And many ways most odd ; 

And might a bishop be in time, 

Did he believe in God. 

•‘For High-Churchmen and policy, 

He swears, he prays most hearty; 

But would pray back again to be 
A Dean of any party. ’ * 

At about this point there was a flutter among the 
people at his back, who became aware that the new 
Dean, preceded by his vergers, had arrived unob- 
served, and was waiting for a passage to be made 
through them. The crowd shrunk back on each side 
as quickly as their number and the narrow space 
permitted, but the reader continued with some yet 
more scurrilous lines, though several pulled the 
skirts of his coat. Then one of the vergers touched 
him with his mace, enjoining silence. 


r 6 4 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 

“Nay, nay, well hear the last verse,” he cried 
impudently, and turning round repeated full in Swift’s 
face : 

“ Look down, St. Patrick, look we pray 
On thine own church and steeple , 

Convert thy Dean on this great day, 

Or else God help the people ! ’ ’ 

But as he ended his voice faltered, for Swift’s eye 
caught his. 

“Reach down yonder paper,” said the new Dean, 
in a subdued but imperious tone, pointing to the 
notice-board. The man slowly removed the intru- 
sive document. 

“Tear it up,” said the Dean. It was done. 

‘ ‘ Smaller, ” he commanded. The man quailed and 
obeyed. When it was strewn on the ground in frag- 
ments : 

“ Go I ” thundered the Dean. He passed on, while 
the reader of the lampoon, jumping hastily down, 
took to his heels and fled away down St. Patrick 
Street faster than the hunted hare. 

The Dean afterwards wrote to Esther Vanhomrigh : 
“ I thought I should have died of discontent, and 
was horribly melancholy while they were installing 
me.” But this profound disgust and depression were 
not visible on his calm and dignified countenance 
as he walked up the aisle ; though Mrs. Johnson, 
who saw him now for the first time since the evening 
of his arrival, was distressed to observe that it bore 
only too strong witness to the genuineness of the ill- 
ness which had confined him to his room for some 
days. To her the position he was to fill was far from 
appearing so contemptible as it did to his London 
friends, and it was with a thrill of pride that she 
watched his stately figure pass up the aisle, and 
finally take possession of the official stall. Swift too, 
looking down on the confused crowd of faces, which 
he believed more definitely hostile than for the most 
part they were, was glad to catch sight of a certain 
familiar pair of velvet-brown eyes, shining there as 
kind and true as ever. 

No sooner was the Dean installed than he began 


ESTHER VANHOMRICH. 


165 

to feel again the enmity of Archbishop King, who had 
already threatened to have him deprived for his delay 
in taking possession of his office. His predecessor, 
who had been his friend, but was like most people, 
easily affected by the popular likes and dislikes, took 
no trouble to smooth his way with his subordinates ; 
nor did he assist Swift with the pecuniary burden of 
the new house, that he did not want, and the large 
debt upon it which he must pay out of a scanty in- 
come. His Chapter made no secret of their intention 
to put themselves in opposition to him. Such a state 
of things has been successfully faced by many men, 
and was so later by Swift himself, but in that sum- 
mer of 1713 he had no heart for it, and literally fled. 
Early in July he wrote to Essie from Laracor : “I 
staid but a fortnight in Dublin, very sick, and re- 
turned not one visit of a hundred that were made 
me ; but all to the Dean and none to the Doctor.. I 
am riding here for life, and I think I am somewhat 
better. I hate the thoughts of Dublin, and prefer a 
field-bed and an earthen floor before the great house 
there, which they say is mine/’ Yes, he was very 
sick — sick not merely of disappointed ambition and 
friendship, but sick of the frustration of nobler, wider 
hopes. He had ideals of patriotism and incorrupti- 
bility, which though commonplace enough to a later 
generation, seemed Utopian to his contemporaries. 
When he joined the Tory party, he, the keen dissecter 
of human nature, was deceived by his own hopes 
and the mouthings of a Bolingbroke, into mistaking 
that intriguing mountebank and his colleagues for 
statesmen and patriots. The awakening had been 
bitter; yet he had remained personally loyal to 
them. Even his disappointment at the unwilling- 
ness or inability of his friends to promote him in the 
Church was justifiable. He had slaved for them as 
a journalist and as an unrecognized member of the 
Government, and as he had declined money-gifts 
and all that savoured of corruption and dependence, 
he had received nothing for his services. His char- 
acter was high, his piety was sincere, and if it was 
somewhat cold, why, the Christianity of the day was 


i66 


ESTHER VANHOMRICH. 


everywhere aspiring to transform itself from a religion 
into a philosophy : so that there was no reasonable 
objection to giving him the sort of promotion he de- 
sired. Yet he had got nothing but exile. All these 
things had been a severe strain upon his health, and 
first at Dublin and afterwards at Laracor he suffered 
from repeated attacks of his usual illness — “a bad 
head.” At such times he would see no one, not even 
Ppt. But in spite of the gloom that overshadowed 
him, the whole cause of which was known only to him- 
self, he made touching efforts to be cheerful in her com- 
pany, and to treat her with the old tenderness. Nor 
did he ever rebuke her now, in the tremendous way 
she had been accustomed to from her childhood. 
She flitted between Trim and Dublin, where she 
superintended the practical details of his affairs. 
Hetty Johnson had a quick intelligence, but the very , 
malleability of her mind, which had enabled it to 
take the stamp of Swift’s, had made her also suscep- 
tible to the influences of the last few years, which 
had been spent with companions of a very different 
calibre. She had never followed the course of poli- 
tics, having been brought up by Swift in his less 
political days, and having perhaps taken too seriously 
his theoretical dislike to political ladies. So the 
harassed politician, devouring his London budgets, 
could not turn to her for the intelligent sympathy 
and discussion to which another had accustomed 
him. But this division, which time had made, time 
could have remedied and that quickly, had it not 
been for a deeper cause of estrangement between 
them. Hetty had too much penetration to be wholly 
deceived by his studied tenderness. If she was all 
to him that she had once been, he could not be so 
inconsolable on returning to her society, under 
whatever circumstances. Was ambition her only 
rival ? Swift was, as she well knew, more than 
cautious, he was secretive about his correspondence, 
but once on riding over unusually early from Trim 
to Laracor, she had found his library empty and a 
letter slipped from his writing-desk onto the floor. 
It was a long letter in a bold hand that she had not 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH. j 6 7 

supposed a woman’s, but as she replaced it on the 
desk, she could not help seeing the large clear signa- 
ture : Esther Vanhomrigh, Junr . For a moment she 
felt a temptation to read it — but no ; if she could not 
have his heart she could at any rate be worthy of it. 
She blushed to find herself on the verge of really 
acting that part of the jealous woman that Swift had 
years ago most unjustly accused her of acting. 
After this she made a timid and vain attempt to 
extract some statement about the Vanhomrighs from 
him. Mr. Erasmus Lewits delayed awhile to answer 
her letter. The lawyer and the friend of Swift strove 
in his bosom wbh the loyal and chivalrous admirer 
of Mrs. Johnson. At length he wrote in a somewhat 
vague and unsatisfactory style, admitting that he 
had informed her mother of a certain report about the 
Dean of St. Patrick’s, the truth of which he was far 
from vouching for, and that he personally knew the 
good Dean to be on terms of great intimacy with the 
lady mentioned, but — then followed a great many 
buts. Finally, he adjured Mrs. Johnson on her hon- 
our not to mention the matter to her friend. It was 
to be hoped that next year, when his circumstances 
were easier, the enviable Dean would lead a certain 
fair lady of Dublin to the altar, and then these foolish 
little scandals would be forgotten. Strange to say, 
Hetty felt no inclination to mention it to the Dean. 
She was excessively reserved and not at all impul- 
sive, and her affection for Swift did not preclude a 
certain awe of him. It would have been an effort to 
her alike to express her feelings and to face his anger. 
She had long ago given him her word to leave him 
absolutely unannoyed by claims of hers to marriage, 
or to any control over his actions and associates ; 
and her word, as he had often pleased her by 
observing, was inviolable. Yet for all that she did 
not meekly accept his conduct towards her. At best 
he had been guilty of deception, for while professing 
to take her frankly behind the scenes of his London 
life, he had kept secret from her an important pas- 
sage in it. She read over several of his journals, and 
replaced them in her desk with a bitter smile. She 


i68 


ESTHER VANHOMRIG II. 


who was over-quick to criticise others had never 
before criticised her Great Man, whom she was used 
to honour before the world had recognised him as 
such. So while she said nothing, the iron was enter- 
ing into her soul, and she became less and less re- 
sponsive to Swift’s playful or melancholy tenderness. 
In the state of dull melancholia into which he had 
fallen, It was an effort to him to show a personal 
interest in any human creature, and he felt naturally 
aggrieved when his efforts did not seem appreciated. 
It never occurred to him to suppose that Hetty knew 
or suspected his intimacy with Esther Vanhomrigh. 
He would have said that to be angry and say nothing, 
especially on such a subject, was not within the 
power of a female. He did not doubt her love, but 
he blamed the coldness of her disposition. And 
sometimes alone in the evening, when his melan- 
choly deepened with the shadows, when he roamed 
among his willows in a weary emptiness of thought, 
while the moon’s silver sickle or ruddy sphere floated 
up through the purple , of the summer twilight, — 
sometimes he seemed to hear the passionate music 
of a rich young voice, crying again and again, “I 
worship, I adore, I love you,” and to feel as it were 
the warmth of a kiss flitting over his hand. Who 
else had ever loved him like that? 

All this time his political friends in England were 
clamouring for his return. They might be a little 
weary of his predominance w T hen he was there, but 
now he was gone they were scattered before their 
enemies as sheep having no shepherd. The internal 
quarrels of the Ministry had passed all bounds. One 
morning early in October, at least half-a-dozen letters 
arrived by the same post, adjuring him by every tie 
of patriotism, honour, friendship, to take ship imme- 
diately for England. Most important among them 
was a letter from Bolingbroke, in which he distinctly 
promised to break the Ministry, unless Swift returned 
at once to chain up the Dragon, as they called Lord 
Oxford. 

By five o’clock that evening he was on board the 
old Royal Anne , and alive again after months of 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 1 69 

suspended animation. “The Archbishop will burst 
with rage when he hears on’t,” he thought and smiled 
grimly. Only a few more days, and he would be in 
the thick of the fight again, more powerful, more 
feared, more sought after than ever, the champion 
of his friends, the terror of his foes. What a change 
from standing on the moral pillory of Dublin, where 
any one was free to throw a rotten egg at him, be- 
cause his position forbade retaliation ! The last 
time he had sailed from that shore he had felt as 
though his heart-strings were fastened to it, to one 
spot on it, where a beautiful woman stood smiling 
bravely and waving a handkerchief ; and as the ship 
dropped out with the tide, they had seemed to strain 
almost to breaking-point. Now when he had leisure 
to think of her it would be with a mingled pang of 
remorse and injured affection ; but for the moment 
he could only watch with feelings of unmixed joy 
the twinkling lights and mountain shores of Ireland 
fading against the fading sunset, and delight to feel 
the first bound of the ship, that announced she had 
slipped into the Channel out of the quiet waters of 
the Bay. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Juste del , madam ; you'd not have me miss a 
chance. ’Tis so important and secret a matter I 
dare not entrust it to females, but if some that shall 
be nameless enjoy their own again, some of us may 
be the better for’t, if we have wit to know in time 
which side our bread’s buttered. And you’d keep 
me in England on so poor a pretext as that I must 
dance at a ball ! Enfeeble me, madam ! I am 
surprised at your belise ! ” 

“Pray now, my dear son, be not unkind to your 
poor mamma,” pleaded Mrs. Vanhomrigh. “If 
’twere only a ball like another ’twould be of no con- 
sequence, but I would not for the world that Molly 
should miss it.” 

Mrs. Vanhomrigh, who looked very worn and- ill, 


170 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


was drinking her chocolate in bed. It was not early, 
but it was early for Ginckel to have made his appear- 
ance, especially as instead of the brocaded night- 
gown and cap that commonly formed his attire on 
first rising, he wore a riding-dress. He shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ Mon Dieu! mamma, why should she? You 
must go yourself. ’T would be very peu convenable 
for my sisters, to be seen in public places without 

J) 

you. 

“There’s some sense in that, Ginckel,” observed 
Essie, coming in from her mother’s dressing-room. 

“ But I beg you will not persuade our mamma to 
go, for I believe I have just persuaded her to the, 
contrary. I shall think it no loss if we all stay at 
home.” 

“I’ll wager you won’t, miss,” replied Ginckel, 
studying the back of his coat by the aid of his 
mother’s hand-mirror. “ You’d be damnably vexed 
to see your sister get a fine husband, while you 
can’t catch so much as a parson. But I’ll allow you 
the excuse that our mamma hath very little wit in 
the matter of marrying her daughters. You are past 
praying for, but I have hopes of Moll, who hath a 
little more confidence in a brother that knows the 
world and is willing to serve her, if you women do 
not hinder him too much with your vapours and 
your strivings.” 

“I will go, my dear son, indeed I will ! ” cried 
Madam Van, and added nervously — “ But remember, 
’tis Moll’s twenty-first birthday in six weeks, and you 
must be back here to see to her business.” 

“ Mr. Lewis and Mr. Barber protest I am an excel- 
lent lawyer, mamma,” said Essie, “so if Ginckel 
will give me the power, I can manage that matter 
for him. I hope, however, when he gets to France 
he will continue to keep out of prison, for he put you 
in a sad fright last time. And as to money, Ginckel, 
I tell you plainly you shall not have so much as a 
brass token if I can hinder you. You would have 
brought our poor mamma to a sponging-house long 
ago, if she had only her own fortune to depend on.” 


„ ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


171 

Ginckel had changed colour for some reason 
while Mrs. Vanhomrigh was speaking, but made 
some appropriate repartee to Essie, and then recov- 
ering himself entered into a lengthy discourse on his 
adventures in Paris last year, from which it appeared 
that the tradesman at whose suit he had been impris- 
oned would not have ventured on such an audacious 
course, had he not been instigated to it by a certain 
person of very great quality, who had the mauvais 
gout to be jealous of his lady. But as the Colonel 
had now made up his mind to pay his addresses 
seriously to a young and wealthy widow, his High- 
ness need no longer be under any apprehension. So 
kissing his fingers to his mother and sister, and prom- 
ising that should they fail in securing a good match 
for Molly in London, he would marry her in France 
when his own affairs were concluded, he set out for 
Dover. 

But though Madam Van’s dress came home punc- 
tually — a dove-coloured and red silk, the petticoat 
branched with large trees, very fine — and she could 
not deny herself the pleasure of trying it on, she did 
not go to the ball. She was so ill that she was 
obliged to notice the fact, though hitherto her en- 
joying temperament and power of overlooking all the 
disagreeables of life, had enabled her to conceal from 
herself and others the rapid progress of what was in 
fact a mortal malady, though she did not know it. 
For she and her daughters were agreed in a well- 
founded distrust of doctors, and called none in to ad- 
minister their miscellaneous rubbish that did duty as 
medicine, and to ply the fatal lancet, that was an- 
swerable for more deaths in that generation than 
the sword of the Grand Monarque . . Now it happened 
that young Mrs. Harris was also invited to the great 
ball, to which Ginckel had got his mother and sisters 
invitations. This was an unprecedented event for 
her, and arose from the fact that Mr. Peter Pon- 
sonby’s step-mother, who gave it, was a City heiress 
connected with the Harris family. Molly then could 
go with her; an arrangement that Esther objected 
to in vain and just to satisfy her conscience, as she 


172 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGII. 


objected to everything, that threw her sister with the 
Mordaunt set. But she had nothing definite to al- 
lege against them except her own dislike, as Molly 
could truthfully say when they discussed the mat- 
ter ; which was as seldom as possible, because it 
hurt them both too much when they fell into a dis- 
pute. The Mordaunt set consisted chiefly of youths 
of fashion, who had begun their career as such at 
sixteen ; which they could easily do, because it was 
a career in which not one manly thought or feeling 
or even accomplishment, except fencing, was re- 
quired of them. Such gregarious creatures, each 
incapable of occupying or amusing himself, readily 
collected round any woman who, like Molly, had 
been elevated to the rank of a toast. And in this 
case besides the gratification it afforded their juvenile 
vanity to be seen with ladies of fashion, as the Van- 
homrighs had somehow come to be considered, 
Madam Van and Molly’s lively talk was of a kind 
that attracted and amused all sorts and conditions of 
men. But discernment is not the gift of youth, and 
very young people, whether they inhabit the poet’s 
Dreamland or the worldliest of worlds, are equally 
subject to illusions. The illusions differ in their 
nature according to temperament and surroundings, 
and the beautiful ones have happily as a rule more 
relation to the important truths of life than the ugly 
and cynical ones. The particular illusion of the 
Mordaunt set consisted in a belief that society di- 
vided itself into persons like themselves and grave, 
severe folks with claims to be considered more vir- 
tuous, which claims need not, however, be always 
admitted, because no one could frequent the theatre 
of the day without learning that virtue is usually 
but a hypocritical affectation. The grave, religious 
man of the comedy was sure to turn out a greater 
villain than the dissipated hero, only not so success- 
ful. So these young gentlemen, while they paid 
Miss Vanhomrigh, who treated them with frank con- 
tempt, the tribute of a respectful dislike, were not so 
respectful in their liking for her mother and younger 
sister. That women should be gay, pleasure-loving, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


173 

fond of fine clothes and fine names, foolishly frolic- 
some and tolerant, all that and more, and yet as pure 
and kind and in their way as simple as sisters of 
charity ; that between such women as the two Van- 
homrighs, and themselves, in spite of some super- 
ficial likeness, there was a great gulf fixed of feel- 
ing and belief and all fundamental things, — this the 
Mordaunt set could not be expected to understand, 
any more than Molly and Mrs. Vanhomrigh could 
understand the situation from their point of view. 
Madam Van had preserved through all her experi- 
ences, and they had not been few, the mind as well 
as the heart of a child. Even Esther, although she 
vaguely distrusted her brothers companions, could 
never have believed that the young men who about 
six o’clock adjourned noisily from her mother’s too 
hospitable table to White’s or the Fountain tavern, 
there out of mere exhilaration, were wont to cast 
very serious imputations on the character of their 
hostess and her younger daughter. But it is certain 
that while Mrs. Vanhomrigh was whispering to her 
friends that Lord Mordaunt would marry her Molly 
to-morrow were it not for his fear of the Earl of Peter- 
borough, w T hich would probably not restrain him long 
now he had come to his majority ; while she was 
both saying and believing this, a less flattering piece 
of gossip about the fair Vanhomrigh had somehow 
found its way into society. 

Meantime Esther had only too many opportunities 
for comparing her Dean favourably with the rest of 
mankind, as represented by the youth of fashion. She 
had never been like another Esther, blind to all his 
faults, but she justly conceived that even in these his 
nature showed itself composed of superior elements 
to theirs. Intellectually he of course played the part 
of Gulliver among the Lilliputians, only he was more 
outspokenly satirical than his hero. The idea of 
Gulliver s Travels had long been present with him, 
and at Laracor he had begun to write the work. 
When he had returned to London in October, political 
exigencies had interrupted it, and he used to say 
that only himself and Esther and Pope and Gay 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


174 

would ever make the acquaintance of the much- 
travelled Captain and his friends. To Swift and 
Esther the personages and circumstances of Gulliver 
became so familiar a part of their lives, that they 
seemed to have almost a joint property in it. From 
which it may be inferred that any resolutions the 
Dean may have formed in Ireland on the subject of 
Miss Essie had been reconsidered in London ; a re- 
sult for which his belief in his own theories of life 
were as much to blame as some natural and amiable 
weaknesses of character. Did he throw her off en- 
tirely, he had grounds for thinking it possible she 
might fall a victim to the snares of certain hungry 
fortune-hunters, who had become very assiduous 
since Cousin Purvis had declared her intentions. 
For Esther had been spending the summer and part of 
the autumn, at Twittenham with Cousin Purvis, who 
was so pleased with her good nursing and kind ways, 
that she had at last made a will, and had therein con- 
stituted Esther Vanhomrigh, Junior, her principal 
legatee. And of this the old lady had made no secret, 
for she thought if it were known her favourite might 
make the better match for it. 

On first returning to London Swift had taken a 
lodging at a distance from St. James’ Street, but it 
was uncomfortable and the old one was empty, so 
he went back there. At this time Esther was still 
away at Twittenham, and he wrote with a certain 
sense of virtue, to tell Ppt. that he was dining 
every three days with neighbour Van, whose eldest 
daughter was away from home. He did not add 
that he missed the said eldest daughter very much, 
especially as the first flush of triumph at returning 
to political life had passed off, and before long he 
had found himself in the situation of some powerful 
spirit men conjure up to mock by the imposition of 
impossible tasks. Weaving ropes of sand would 
have been a profitable industry compared to the 
attempt to weld together a party disintegrated by 
petty feuds and ambitions, as well as by inevitable 
circumstances ; for the Queen could not live much 
longer, and after her death there would be no place 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


175 

for a Tory party as it then existed. The Tories must 
either resign themselves to the absolute triumph of 
the Whigs on the accession of George of Hanover, or 
they must turn Jacobites. There was no longer any 
room for a convenient if illogical, compromise between 
rival theories of Monarchy. In after years some peo- 
ple liked to say that Swift had never been in the confi- 
dence of the Ministry which he professed to manage ; 
and it was true that Bolingbroke and others had at 
this time relations with the Stuarts at St. Germains 
which they dared not disclose to him. He had no 
knowledge of their vacillating intrigues, but he saw 
well enough that something was being concealed 
from him. 

Esther allowed herself to be detained by Mrs. 
Purvis, because in spite of her restless longing to go 
back to London, she was also afraid to go ; not so 
much reasonably afraid of her own feelings as un- 
reasonably afraid of their object. All those quiet 
summer days and nights at Twittenham she had been 
feeding her passion with dreams, and she had still 
sense enough to know that the reality would not 
resemble them. She feared that she could not meet 
her divinity without in some way manifesting her 
adoration, nor support without sickening anguish 
some awful look or bitter jest of his. But one golden 
day in the very end of October the dreams and the 
fears alike came to an end at the touch of reality. It 
was literally a golden day, for there had been no 
wind to strip the trees of their leaves, and the single 
trees of garden and hedgerow and the sloping woods 
over the Thames, were all burning from summit to 
base in different shades of gold. The big chestnut 
in Mrs. Purvis’ garden that stretched its arms into 
the river, threw golden reflections deep down into 
the water, and yet had prodigally carpeted the paths 
with gold. The Michaelmas daisies and even the 
dahlias and bushy fuchsias were still bright in the 
borders, and the noonday sunshine made the shel- 
tered garden almost hot, as Essie walked there with 
her mother and Molly and the Dean of St. Patrick’s. 
Soon after she returned to London. 


i 7 6 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

Volumes of analysis would scarcely suffice to set 
forth what is yet one of the world’s commonest com- 
monplaces ; namely the process by which upright 
and intelligent people can by imperceptible degrees 
slide into positions which any one but themselves 
can see to be morally, and it may be practically, 
untenable. If the relations between Esther and Swift 
were extraordinary, there was nothing extraordinary 
in the process by which they arrived at them. The 
intimacy to which they were accustomed, the right 
to her absolute confidence that Swift as Mentor had 
early assumed to himself, soon made it appear 
natural to both that he should know her secret, al- 
though it related to himself. Her passionate, adoring 
love seemed to be crystallised, to have gained a 
greater strength and definiteness, from having been 
permitted expression, and though at this time never 
again directly expressed, it coloured their whole in- 
tercourse, — it not merely filled, but was, her life. 
It must have been a strange and thrilling thing for a 
sensitive, imaginative man and one arrived at an age 
when he might be supposed to be beyond the reach 
of new emotional experiences, to be suddenly as it 
were enveloped in the warm atmosphere of a love, 
the like of which he had never received or experi- 
enced, and that at a time when all the world about 
him seemed especially cold and unsatisfactory. He 
himself had sighed for Miss Waring in youthful folly, 
and had known the tender and the jealous agitation 
of a lover in his long attachment to Hetty Johnson. 
Hetty on her side had always loved him with a calm 
and deep affection in accordance with her own char- 
acter and the education he had given her ; but neither 
of the pair had been capable of such passion, such 
complete devotion as Esther Vanhomrigh’s. Swift 
was at bottom very faithful in his friendships even 
to women, but he was superficially capricious and 
easily chilled and offended by any one. Ppt., it must 
be confessed, had been cold, even sarcastic to him of 
late; a fact which did not help him to resist the 
magnetism of this wonderful, incomprehensible pas- 
sion, that sometimes drew him into its warm folds, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


I77 


sometimes vexed and repelled him, but was never 
long- absent from his thoughts. There was a fas- 
cination too, a sense of power in ruling so strong 
a nature, that itself delighted to rule. Hetty’s sub- 
mission to him, a thing much older than her woman- 
hood, was too complete and too much a matter of 
course to affect him in the same way. Then 
there was the sympathy and quick understanding 
he found with Essie during the last desperate strug- 
gles of the Tory party in the year 1713-14 ; and 
the flattery to his vanity — that vanity which his pride 
could conceal but not destroy, when he heard Esther 
and her fortune flattered. All these things helped 
him to drop easily into a position which was like, 
but not the same as the old friendly intimacy. He 
continued to say before her how he laughed at men 
who fell in love and pitied men who married, and 
further relieved his conscience by reflecting that 
time and circumstances must inevitably destroy 
Essie’s absurd passion for himself. Meantime why 
make two innocent people superfluously unhappy 
and uncomfortable ? 

Thus had matters progressed — for such matters 
can only apparently stand still — through the autumn 
and winter. Now it was May, and after a stormy 
interview with the two leaders of the Ministry, Lord 
Oxford and Lord Bolingbroke, who every day hated 
each other worse, he called at the Vanhomrighs’ on 
his way home. The excitement of the fray was still 
. in his blood, and he would have liked to act the in- 
terview all over again to Essie, and get her either to 
confirm his wavering intention to shake the dust of 
London off his feet, or to lend him good reasons 
for staying. To his disappointment, he found she 
had been called away to Twittenham by the sudden 
illness of Mrs. Purvis. After a few preoccupied 
words with Madam Van and Molly, he went slowly 
home and sat down to read. He held a book in his 
hand — his favourite History of the Civil Wars — but he 
did not read more than a paragraph, and in his ram- 
bling thoughts it was not Oxford and Bolingbroke 
that most persistently held a place. He was not long 
12 


ESTHER VANHOMRTGH. 


178 

left to his meditations, for presently Mr. Erasmus 
Lewis climbed his two pair of stairs, full of concern 
at the hopeless position of political affairs. Mr. 
Lewis was the safest of confidants, and Swift found 
some relief in telling him all that had passed between 
the two Ministers and himself, though on their side 
it had been nothing but violent recriminations, while 
he, after vain attempts at reconciliation and a few 
angry sarcasms, had, as he said, bitten up paper and 
tugged at his wig for the rest of the two full hours. 

“And pray, Dean, is this true that’s about the 
town, that you’ll be married before you go home to 
Dublin ? ” asked Mr. Lewis, with an indifference that 
was only assumed ; for at the bottom of his legal 
soul there blossomed some strange, incongruous 
little flowers of chivalry and kind feeling. 

The Dean started. 

“A plague upon their nasty tattle!” he cried. 

“ Who told you so, Lewis ? ” 

“Oh, half-a-dozen persons.” 

“Half-a-dozen liars !” and Swift began to bite a 
letter he held in his hand. 

“ Then ’tis false, Dean ? ” 

“False as hell or the Review" 

“I’m glad on’t,” replied Mr. Lewis, shortly. “But 

if I had heard you was to be married in Dublin 

faith, now, I should wish ’twas true.” 

“ Married ! ” sniffed the Dean. “Lord love thee, 
man ! Art gotten an old woman, with thy head full 
of weddings and funerals? You’ll see me buried I * 
warrant, but married — h’m.” 

“Have you had good news of Mrs. Johnson 
lately ? ’ asked Mr. Lewis. “She was but sadly three 
weeks since.” 

Swift changed colour. 

“Who told you so ? ” he asked. 

“ Her sister ; I met her at Lady Giffard’s Tuesday 
se nmght. J 

“I knew nothing on’t,” returned Swift. “Pray 
Heaven she may be better ! Poor, poor — Mrs. John- 
Mr. Lewis having said his say took leave. But 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


179 

his visit had thrown a gleam of daylight from with- 
out on Swift’s position. Such a gleam would be lost 
on some, but on him it was not. His mind, half 
conventional, half casuistic, might deny it, but his 
heart owned the paramount claim of Ppt. upon 
his life. Now for these many months her image had 
been little, ever less and less with him. She had 
been suffering, and he had not even known it ! In 
deep remorse he penned her a letter full of tender- 
ness and commiseration. He thanked Heaven there 
was no chance of her hearing this report about his 
marriage ; but it made an added reason for his retire- 
ment from London, and, in spite of the remonstran- 
ces of his political and private friends, he left it sud- 
denly towards the end of May. He betook himself 
to a country village — a little solitary place, hidden 
in a wooded fold of the Berkshire downs. Before 
leaving town he sent one of his brief notes, so 
guarded they make the reader ask his reason for such 
caution, to Esther at Twittenham ; but she had left 
before it arrived, Cousin Purvis being out of danger 
from her stroke, though still hardly in her senses, 
and Mrs. Vanhomrigh unwell. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

When Molly was waiting for her chair to go to the 
ball, she remarked that Essie looked pale, which was 
only natural, seeing she had already had a week 
of severe sick-nursing at Twittenham. Essie, like 
many people before and since the generation that 
regarded weakliness as a charm, was somewhat con- 
ceited on the score of her good health. She flatly 
denied being pale, and taking out her own Turkish 
shawl, that her godfather had brought her from 
Adrianople, she wrapped it about her sister’s white 
rounded throat and bosom, cautiously, so as not to 
crumple the laces and ribbons. 

“Take care of your own health, miss,” she said, 
“and leave mine to take care of itself. It can do very 


180 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

well, I dare assure you.” And while she stood there 
wrapping Molly up, it struck her that she had never 
seen her sister look so pretty as to-night. It gave 
her pleasure to see that, but also it filled her with 
a vague, unreasonable anxiety. 

“ Pray now be good, Moll,” she said, “and not a 
madcap, and be not too hugely diverted, nor come 
back with a great cold, but be good.” 

“ I will answer thee, Hess, ‘ sad face and true 
maid/” replied Molly, with her little smile that had 
in it a touch of satiric humour. “Know then, Gov- 
ernor Huff, I shall divert myself to the top of my 
bent this day, next day, and some two thousand 
days after, and be as mad as a colt in clover, and all 
this out of pure kindness to a certain sober-sided Mrs. 
Moll you shall one day make acquaintance with, 
that she may know the world’s a snare and live dis- 
creetly. ” 

The chairman’s knock resounded through the house, 
and tapping her elder sister delicately on the nose 
with her fan, Miss Molly tripped downstairs. 

Esther was already undressed, and when she had 
settled her mother for the night, she threw herself 
into her bed with a sigh of contentment and fell fast 
asleep. She slept sound, for she was young and 
healthy, and it was many nights since she had had 
her natural rest. She must have slept for several 
hours when she became aware of some one talking 
in the adjoining room, the partition-wall of which 
was thin. She lay still for a little between sleeping 
and waking, hearing the voice but attaching no ideas 
to it, till suddenly she realised that this querulous 
moaning voice was her mother’s, and that it came 
from Ginckel’s room which should have been empty. 
In a moment she was out of bed and in the passage, 
with only her thin night-rail and bare feet. The door 
of Ginckel’s room was open, and the moonlight was 
shining in at the uncurtained window as bright as 
day. To her surprise she saw that Mrs. Vanhomrigh 
was dressed in her new ball-dress, and had a lace 
commode on her head and a diamond necklace not 
fastened, but hanging loose among the trimmings of 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


1 8 1 

her bodice. She was pulling her son’s numerous 
clothes out of the drawers and closets, and rummag- 
ing in the pockets, talking to herself all the time like 
a person who is very much worried about something. 
When she had finished searching each garment she 
threw it from her blindly, and the fine silks and 
satins and gold and silver brocade of Ginckel’s ward- 
robe lay tossed about on the floor, glittering in the 
moonlight. Essie came softly and took hold of her 
mother to lead her back to bed, concluding her to be 
walking in her sleep, though her eyes were open. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Vanhomrigh, answering the 
touch, “I’m coming. But what is the use without 
the paper ? ” 

“It is of no consequence, mamma,” returned 
Esther. 

“But it is, it is, I tell you,” replied Mrs. Vanhom- 
righ, with a pettish sob. “ They cannot be married 
without it. There is six months’ notice required, and 
then the clerks will do nothing without the paper. 
Oh dear ! oh dear ! Whatever shall we do ? ” 

And she went on lamenting incoherently to herself, 
beginning words and not finishing them. Esther 
again tried to draw her away, but in vain. 

“I will find it, mamma, ’’she said, “ if you will 
tell me what it is.” 

Mrs. Vanhomrigh sat dowm on the end of the dis- 
mantled bed ; her eyes had lost their fixed stare, and 
glittered feverishly. She looked ghastly ill and aged 
as she sat there in the moonlight in her ball-dress, 
shaking her head with a smile half-sprightly, half- 
knowing. 

“ Tell Essie ! ” she said, as though to herself. “ No, 
no, that would never do ; Essie must not know a word 
about it. How surprised she will be, to be sure ! 

Essie, salute her ladyship ” and she began to 

laugh, swaying herself about and exclaiming in her 
amusement as incoherently as she had lamented. It 
came on Essie with a shock that her mother was not 
merely sleep-walking, but delirious; and also that 
there was some secret, probably an unpleasant one, 
on her mind. Her first impulse was to fetch old Ann, 


I 82 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


but she reflected that she was no longer a child to 
run to her nurse in every difficulty, and that if any 
disclosures were to be made, it was as well she should 
be alone to hear them. No longer afraid of awaking 
her mother, she put her strong arm round Mrs. Van- 
homrigh and spoke authoritatively to her. Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh yielded, and went down to her own 
bedroom in silence. But when her daughter began 
trying to take off her dress, which in spite of its elab- 
orateness she had laced and arranged without any 
mistake, it seemed to suggest to her again the idea 
of making her toilette. She flew to seat herself before 
her pretty heart-shaped mirror, and called hurriedly 
for more lights. 

“My necklace ! ” she cried, putting her hand to 
her throat, “I’ll not go without it. Lady Peter- 
borow herself will not have such stones, and Moll 
will be glad to show the fine jew’ls are not all on one 
side of the house. Make haste — my patch-box, you 
slut — the rouge ! Sure I look frightfully. Ah, well — 
once I was the gayest, handsomest young miss in 
Dublin, and sighing won’t bring it back. But the 
paper— don’t let them go to church without that 
cursed paper.” 

Esther was cutting the lace of her smart be-ribboned 
stays, and undressing her again as quickly as pos- 
sible. Then with an effort she lifted her mother’s 
wasted form — how terribly light she had grown ! — 
laid her in bed and stood by to see that she did 
not again rise. Esther remained half standing, half 
leaning on the bed, for more than an hour, during 
which her mother rambled intermittently in a manner 
that doubly alarmed her, both because it showed 
Mrs. Vanhomrigh to be more seriously ill than she 
had thought, and also because of the mysterious 
trouble to which she alluded in her wanderings. 
The names of Lord Mordaunt and Molly, confused 
with talk about Ginckel and papers and money, 
were perpetually recurring. But Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s 
wanderings grew more and more intermittent, and 
by the time it grew light she was sleeping. Esther 
called old Ann and went herself, not to sleep, but to 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


183 


dress. The vague anxiety with which she had seen 
Molly go out had returned upon her more strongly 
than ever, and she wondered why her sister did not 
return. The moonlight night had turned into a grey 
morning, and it was chill with the chill of dawn ; 
but when she was dressed she opened one of the 
front-parlour windows, and leaned out into the little 
iron balcony. St, James’ Street was at the centre of 
the fashionable world, and the traffic had not yet 
ceased in it A group of sedan-chairs came down it 
just as she looked out, but some turned off towards 
St. James’ Square and the rest in other directions. 
When the street was quite empty except for a few 
belated foot-passengers, a chaise came round the 
corner of Piccadilly. Esther had good eyes and she 
recognized the liveries, the horse and the vehicle 
itself at once. There were two servants in the box- 
seat, and one of them had a shawl thrown carelessly 
round his neck over his livery, presumably to pro- 
tect him from the morning air. Esther observed that 
it was extremely like her own, the like of which she 
had never seen in all London. The coachman, half 
asleep or intoxicated, was driving carelessly, and 
just as the equipage passed the Vanhomrighs’ house 
the horse stumbled badly, bringing his knees within 
a hair’s-breadth of the stones, but recovering himself. 
The footman with the shawl threw it off on the top 
of the chaise and jumped down to see if the animal 
had scraped his knees. Esther looked straight down 
on the shawl and saw it to be not only identical in 
colour and pattern with her own, but to have the 
identical large brown stain at one corner which hers 
had always had, and which Ann had often tried 
vainly to remove. The sight of the shawl her sister 
had been wearing on Lord Mordaunt’s chaise, gave 
her a shock ; by an irresistible impulse she rushed 
down to the front door to see who was in the car- 
riage, but by the time she had unbolted and opened 
it, the equipage was rattling down the street and 
away in the direction of Chelsea. She went upstairs 
to her sister’s room, locked the door and took away 
the key. All was quiet in the street now. There 


184 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


was nothing more to be done at present, but wander- 
ing about the house like an unquiet spirit, she met 
Ann just outside her mother’s door, and she could 
not help saying : — 

“Ann, Miss Molly has not come home yet.” 

Her haggard eyes met Ann’s as she spoke, and the 
old woman turned a shade more ash-coloured than 
she already was looking, less at the speech than at 
the manner of it. 

“Lord love us, Miss Essie ! ” she cried, and then 
after a pause : “ Maybe she went back along of Mrs. 
Harris.” 

“Why should she? ” returned Esther, with the im- 
patience of a person in pain. “Mrs. Harris is lodg- 
ing in Park Place — ’tis scarce three minutes’ walk 
from here.” 

“ Let me run and see, Miss Essie,” said Ann. 

Esther shook her head. 

“ I would not have them know she is not returned. 
I will go round myself as soon as I can decently 
rouse them, on pretence of asking my cousin to direct 
me to a good physician for the mistress.” 

“May the Lord heal and preserve her ! ” replied 
the old woman solemnly. “ I’ll go pray. ’Tis all 
I can do, and it seems little use ; and yet I warrant 
’tis more use than a shop r full of ’pothecary’s stuff.” 

So Esther roused her cousin, insisting on a per- 
sonal interview with her at an unreasonably early 
hour. Mrs. Harris came in yawning in a bed-gown, 
and heard how her aunt had been taken ill in the 
night, and how much, as Mrs. Vanhomrigh disliked 
doctors, one must certainly be called. And all the 
time Essie’s anxious eyes were fixed on her cousin, 
in hopes that she would begin to explain that Molly 
was under her roof. Something indeed she said 
about Molly presently. 

“Sure, then, ’tis all the more reason Cousin Moll 
had better have left the ball in my company last 
night, and as a married woman, my dear, I must 
needs inform ye I thought it vastly strange conduct 
her letting this young Lord Mordaunt drive her home 
in his chay. ” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. ^5 

“Did she so?” asked Essie, with trembling lips. 
“I — I — have scarce had time to inquire. She is 
sleeping very sound ; she will not wake before noon, 
or after. 'Twas an indiscretion ; but you must under- 
stand a message reached her, and she thought to get 
home the faster. Pray accept my excuses, Cousin 
Harris, and my thanks, and good-bye to ye.” 

When Essie left her cousin’s lodgings, she turned 
at once and walked in the direction of Bury Street. 
She was only a girl of three-and-twenty, and the anx- 
iety and responsibility of the situation seemed more 
than she could bear alone. Meanwhile a note which 
had been sent to Twittenham was finding its way in 
the postman’s bag to St. James’ Street, to tell her 
Swift was gone. At the moment when she stood on 
the threshold of his lodgings, he was riding slowly 
out of the Angel Inn at Oxford on the last stage of 
his Berkshire journey. The news of his departure 
was a great blow ; she had not indeed time or atten- 
tion to spare for herself in the character of the for- 
saken lover, but she felt that this desertion threw her 
back entirely on her own resources in a situation so 
critical for others. 

With a sensation of vague anger against Swift and 
the whole world, she turned away from his aban- 
doned lodgings — an anger that was unreasonable 
enough, but served the useful purpose of bracing her 
to meet her difficulties. Mrs. Vanhomrigh was still 
asleep when she got home again, and she could think 
of nothing better to do than to go up to Molly’s room 
and ransack it for anything that might throw some 
light on her relations with Lord Mordaunt, or the 
money matters which in Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s wander- 
ing talk had been connected with these. She found 
a sheaf of notes from Mordaunt, remarkable only for 
a certain disagreeable self-confidence, and for being 
better written and spelt than the billets-doux of most of 
Molly’s fashionable admirers. She glanced through 
them, and through a packet of borrowed verses in 
various hands and variously inscribed : To Chide ; 
To Clarinda ; To Phillida. But none of them showed 
signs of coming from Mordaunt. Indeed they had 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


1 86 

all been laughed over in the family circle before now, 
when they had arrived by the threepenny post, or 
been slipped into Molly’s muff. Baffled here, she 
next marched into Ginckel’s room, with the determi- 
nation that nothing there should be sacred from her 
search. The wardrobe had been turned out the night 
before. There was, however, a small standing desk 
in the room with an upright cupboard on the top ; 
the cupboard was open and had papers in it ; bills, 
receipts for cosmetics, and billets-doux in feminine 
hands, even worse spelt than those in Molly’s desk, 
were mixed in careless confusion. The desk part 
was locked, and the same key did not fit it, nor did 
any on her own bunch. There then, if anywhere, 
must be something of importance. She pulled at the 
lid and shook it with all her might, but in vain, and, 
furious with rage at the strength of the lock and her 
own incapacity, looked round for some instrument 
wherewith to force it. One or two rapiers hung on 
the wall, and among them a short sword. At a bound 
she was on the table* above which it hung, had 
snatched it from the wall, and, leaping down again, 
was at the desk once more. For a minute or two 
the tight-fitting lid refused to admit the blade, but at 
length the point got a grip of it. She thrust the sword 
in and out on the other side with the energy of rage, 
and, bringing her strength to bear on the blade, en- 
deavoured to turn it. For a moment the blade bent, 
and then, with a crackling sound and a splintering of 
wood, the desk flew open, disclosing its hoard of doc- 
uments, and, throwing the sword down clanging on 
to the boards, she hastily turned over the papers. 
Almost on the top lay a folded one, sealed with the 
Mordaunt arms. She opened it, and redin Ginckel’s 
handwriting : — 

“ /, Ginckel Vamhomrigh , Colonel in Her Majesty s 
service , do hereby promise to pay Thomas Mordaunt , 
Viscount Mordaunt , four thousand pounds , to be paid 
one thousand at a time o?i each quarter-day from this 
present date, September the 8 th, 1712 / and I also prom- 
ise to ask no interest for the said money , on the conditions 
agreed to by the said Thomas Mordaunt, ” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


187 

This appeared to be only a copy of some doc- 
ument, but within was another paper, signed, sealed, 
and formally witnessed. It ran thus : — 

“I, Thomas Lord Mor daunt, promise to repay the 
said four thousand pounds within three months of my 
coming of age, or, in the eve?it of my not doing so, to 
marry Miss Mary Vanhomrigh, sister of the above 
Ginckel Vanhomrigh, within the same time. ” 

Esther stared at the strange document for a few 
minutes, the line on her forehead deepening as she 
stared ; then with a cry of anger and disgust she 
threw the paper from her, and it fluttered to the ground 
by the side of the sword. 

Had Ginckel paid the money, and if so where had 
he got it? The first question was soon answered, 
for Lord Mordaunt’s receipts were there, and the 
answer to the other Esther guessed only too easily, 
before the letters lying before her had made it clear. 
It was more difficult to say why Ginckel had kept 
these letters. It may have been to remind himself 
of certain details concerning the family funds which 
they incidentally noted ; it may have been merely 
for the same mysterious no-reason that often induces 
people to keep incriminating correspondence. He 
had for some years been sole trustee of his youngest 
sisters property, his brother who had shared the 
trust with him having died abroad. It was invested 
in the business of the flourishing mercantile house 
to which his father and brother had belonged. 
From that business nothing could be withdrawn at 
less than six months’ notice, and it was so arranged 
that one- third only of the capital could be withdrawn 
at any one time, an interval of three months having 
to elapse between the withdrawal of each portion. 
The whole sum amounted to six thousand pounds ; 
a much more considerable fortune then than it would 
be now, especially at the high rate of interest it was 
earning. How Ginckel had raised the thousand 
pounds immediately required on Setemper 29, 1712, 
Esther did not understand, butin March, 1713, he had, 
after due notice given, withdrawn two thousand of 
Molly’s capital. In the end of June of the same year 


1 88 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


he had been detained in a French prison, and had 
been obliged to empower his mother to receive and 
pay the next two thousand, not indeed informing her 
of the precise terms of the bargain, but persuading 
her that by laying Lord Mordaunt under this obli- 
gation, she was greatly facilitating that match of 
Molly’s she had so much at heart. With Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh to desire a thing very much meant to 
consider it as good as obtained, and so she had long 
regarded Mordaunt as virtually her son-in-law. Con- 
sequently she had at the time felt little scruple in 
obeying her son’s behest, though she had sufficient 
delicacy not to tell Molly about it. Esther she was 
of course forbidden to tell. But as the months went 
on, and Mordaunt came of age, and yet, even to her 
sanguine eyes, appeared not in a “coming-on dis- 
position,” she became very uneasy. She had never 
kept a secret before, and never before in all her gay, 
thoughtless life done anything really wrong. Now 
she was conscious that she had helped her son to rob 
her younger daughter, and though it had been done 
by both entirely in Molly’s interest, the anxiety she 
suffered lest the money thus taken should be gone 
without return, had done much to hasten the progress 
of her disease. 

The details of the business were of course not all 
to be found in the letters which Esther looked through, 
but there was quite enough to give her a pretty clear 
idea of what had occurred. She saw Ginckel, ever 
the most foolish and futile of schemers, baiting the 
hook, her mother standing by, impetuous, prompt 
as usual to share his self-complacent view of himself 
and his projects ; saw only too clearly the shrewd 
young object of their attention making the most out 
of their fatuity, with many a private or, worse still, 
public sneer at it. “Good God,” she thought, “he 
has the right to despise us.” And if Mordaunt could 
become more hateful to her than he was before, he 
became so. 

She closed the desk again, but it was so damaged 
that, had she wished, she could not have concealed 
her raid upon it. She looked at it with a bitter smile, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


189 

and pressing down an ugly splinter with her finger, 

“ He will protest 'twas most dishonourable con- 
duct/’ she said to herself. “Female treachery — that 
is what he will call it,” and she laughed aloud. It 
was a strange brief burst of laughter that startled 
herself, and made her jump up from the chair by 
the desk, and turn to flee from the room. 

The sword still lying on the floor caught her eye. 
She took it up, and feverishly handling the blade, 

“ Oh that I were a man ! ” she thought ; “I would 
kill him, kill him without mercy.” Then she threw 
it away from her again, for it was only by feminine 
weapons that she could hope to make her way into 
Peterborough House. She dressed herself very care- 
fully in a new blue damask dress and her best lace 
Steinkirk ; tried on a Leghorn hat, and discarded it 
in favour of a hood which was more stylish and be- 
coming. All this, not with the pleasure of a girl 
adorning herself, but with the stern care of a duellist 
preparing his weapons. The fatigue she had felt 
the evening before had entirely disappeared in the 
excitement of the succeeding hours ; she was pale in- 
deed, but not haggard, as a person of less perfectly 
robust physique must have been after such a vigil, and 
the look of defiant determination that she wore be- 
came her face more than the soft bloom it had lost. 

As she came downstairs she saw a fat man with a 
colossal peruke and a big cane standing on the lower 
landing to get his breath. It was the doctor come 
to see Mrs. Vanhomrigh, and she must stay her 
impetuous course, which seemed about to take her 
at one bound across St. James' Park to Peterborough 
House, in order to answer and ask questions. Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh had slept, and was much better for the 
time. The doctor's practised eye saw on her face 
the look of one mortally stricken, but the science of 
the day did not enable him to name her malady and 
pronounce her doom. He talked a long time to con- 
ceal his helplessness, prescribed nauseous physic, 
and went. Mrs. Vanhomrigh called Esther back as 
the two left the room. Her indomitable spirits had 
risen again, in spite of illness and anxiety. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


190 

: ‘My love,” she said, “I’m surprised at your im- 
pudence in bringing that creature to see me. When 
I’m inside a hearse, you may put him outside of it for 
an ornament, if he’s to your taste, but I swear he 
shall not come near me again while I live.” 

“Oh, mamma, do try his physic before you are so 
determined against him.” 

“Faith, I’ll try it. There’s poor old puppy sadly 
wants putting out of his misery, but I knew not how 
to accomplish his end ; this physic comes most 
fortunately. But tell me now, Hess, how did Molly 
divert herself last evening? ” 

“I cannot tell, mamma. She is not awake.” 

“ The lazy hussy 1 I warrant then things went 
well, if she slumbers so soundly. She has pleasant 
dreams, no doubt. What will you wager me, miss, 
that all is not settled between her and Mordaunt? 
Now never look cross for it — I believe that match is 
made in Heaven, and will be, and a prettier young 
couple you’ll not find in all England and Ireland too.” 

“Pray, mamma, sup up this; ’tis good chicken 
broth, such as I know you love.” 

“ It has an ill taste to-day, my dear, and I will 
none of it. I am all impatience to see Moll ; send 
her to me as soon as she wakes.” 

“Mamma, I entreat you to keep quiet and not 
agitate yourself. Old Anne shall come to you, for I 
am forced to go out on business.” 

The word startled Mrs. Vanhomrigh. 

“What business ? ” she asked sharply. 

“Mr. Lewis has heard of a tenant for the house, 
at Cellbridge,” returned Esther, prevaricating with 
unusual glibness. 

Her mother turned uneasily on her pillow. 

“Ah!” she moaned, half to herself, “I wish 
Ginckel had not gone away.” 

“So do I, mamma,” replied Esther significantly; 
and leaving the patient in charge of Ann, she called 
a hackney-coach and drove off in the direction of 
Peterborough House, more calmly and despondently 
than she would have done had she started an hour 
earlier in the first flush of her wrath. When she 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


191 

caught sight of its high surrounding walls, she could 
not but think how she and Molly and Swift had 
passed and commented on them merrily more than 
once, when they used to “hobble,” as he called it, 
to Chelsea and back that summer he had lodged 
there, and had been ill and wanted a great deal of 
nursing and cheering. But it was a passing thought, 
for the iron gates opened and the business of the 
moment again absorbed her. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Lord Peterborough, though an early riser, was not 
yet fully dressed. He sat over his dish of chocolate 
in his velvet bed-gown and night-cap, relaxing his 
mind with a new comedy. He was in particularly 
good spirits, as he had just received a letter inform- 
ing him that Her Majesty was better again, and if 
only she would last through the summer, he believed 
he and Bolingbroke and the rest of them would cer- 
tainly be able to bring in James III. Not that he 
cared a pin about the Stuarts and Divine Right, but 
he did care whether his own party or the opposite 
one finally triumphed. His money matters, too, were 
more flourishing than usual, in spite of Lady Peter- 
borough having insisted on the payment of a long 
outstanding debt to her, in order that she might save 
her son from the consequences of his own folly and 
extravagance. So being in no particular dread of 
duns, he considered the matter when Adriano, his 
Italian valet, told him there was a lady below de- 
manding a private audience. 

“Is she young, Adriano, very young?" he asked 
in Italian. “Thou know’st my taste ; I would have 
no woman but the Queen live past five-and-twenty. 
Is she young and tolerably pretty ? ” 

“ Gia, Excellence, the lady is young and beautiful. 
But most beautiful ! ” And Adriano, who was a fresh 
importation, fell into an attitude of rapture. 

Peterborough looked at him doubtfully. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


192 

“The dog takes every carroty miss for a beauty,” 
he muttered, finishing his chocolate and meditatively 
folding up a fine fringed napkin. 

“Well, Adriano,” he resumed at last, “thou canst 
show her across the vestibule into the Venetian par- 
lour. In that way I shall see enough of her to decide 
the matter.” 

So as Esther paused in the middle of the large 
marble-paved'entrance hall, while Adriano was tying 
his shoe-ribbon, her keen young eyes caught sight of 
a small elderly face peering from behind the balusters, 
surmounted by a velvet night-cap. She smiled ironi- 
cally to herself, recognising it as Lord Peterborough’s 
and guessing his object. 

Twenty minutes after, when she was ushered up- 
stairs, he looked as she had seen him do in the Mall 
and at assemblies : an alert, upright little figure well 
dressed in brown and buff, with a pair of blue eyes 
still lively and piercing, and a once-handsome face, 
whose wrinkles were half concealed by touches of 
paint and the shadow of a flowing flaxen peruke. 
He bowed with his jewelled hand on his heart as she 
came in, and she returned the bow with as fine a 
curtsey as ever he saw in his life. Adriano discreetly 
retired. 

“This is indeed an unexpected happiness, madam,” 
he said, handing her to a chair. “ The stars indeed 
smile upon me this morning.” 

She was evidently a lady, well-bred, well-dressed, 
young and handsome too. Was she a petitioner for 
his interest with some Minister for a place, a fair 
Jacobite, or — pleasing thought — a romantic miss, en- 
amoured of his reputation ? 

“My Lord,” she replied, “my name and person 
cannot be known to you as yours are to me, although 
we have acquaintance in common.” An instinctive, 
unreasoning pride made her avoid using the name of 
Swift, with whom Lord Peterborough was intimate. 
“ I must then present myself to your Lordship — Mrs. 
Esther Vanhomrigh, Junior.” 

She spoke calmly and with dignity, but Peter- 
borough’s quick eye noted the nervous quiver of her 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


193 

lip and the knitting of her brow, and he hastily con- 
cluded himself to be what the French call in good 
fortune. He bowed again, looked at her critically, 
and saw one or two quite remarkably fine points 
about her. 

“ Vanhomrigh,” he repeated smiling, and thinking 
of her appearance more than of what he said. “Now 
where have I heard that name ? Believe me, madam, 
had I ever set eyes on you, I could not have forgotten 
the least circumstance that concerned you.” 

“I trust that is encouraging enough,” he thought; 
‘ ‘ Gad, I shall be in love in five minutes more by the 
clock.” 

“My Lord,” she said, after a pause, “my busi- 
ness is of a nature so serious to me, though I am 
aware it may appear trifling to you, that — that — I 
scarce know how to open it to your Lordship.” 

Lord Peterborough, confirmed in his impression, 
would have liked to fall on his bended knee, and kiss 
the hand that was clasping and unclasping the arm 
of her chair, but fearing he could no longer do so 
conveniently or gracefully, he sat down and taking it 
delicately in his own, touched it with his lips. 

She withdrew her hand hastily, and speaking with 
determination continued : 

“ Tis as master of this house, I appeal to you, for 
I must beg you to have it searched. 'Tis my un- 
happy belief that your son has my sister somewhere 
concealed on these premises.” 

Lord Peterborough jumped up again, a little morti- 
fied to find himself not, as he had supposed, the ob- 
ject of a romantic passion on the part of this fine 
young woman, but not despairing of some success 
with her all the same. 

“If the lady resemble you, madam,” he replied, 
“my son is indeed enviable. But I believe Heaven 
doth not make these fine creatures in pairs. ” 

“My Lord,” she asked, with a sudden, disconcert- 
ingly direct look, “do you know if my sister is 
here?” 

Peterborough, who was never still for long together, 
walked a few steps and took snuff. 

*3 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


194 

“Confound the woman!” he thought. “What’s 
her sister to me or Mordaunt either? ” 

He pretended to consider. 

“Hath she a pair of eyes with all the charming 
softness of the blue, and all the vivacity of the black ? 
Hath she a white skin and lips of the most inviting 
red? Can she — oh, no, surely she cannot. — boast a 
hand and arm as finely formed, as white, as soft, as 
that I had the honour but now to kiss ? ” 

In Esther’s eyes there was none of that glamour sur- 
rounding the Hero of Barcelona, the Tribune of the 
Coffee-houses, which had inspired Francis Earle with 
awe when he stood before him in that same room. 
She saw in him nothing but what in fact he was to her 
— a heartless old fribble. She knew that her best 
chance was to remain calm and trade upon his vanity, 
but she also knew that her indignant impatience was 
fast getting the better of her diplomacy. So far, how- 
ever, it showed itself only in the alternate paling and 
flushing of her cheeks. 

“My Lord, you do so much honour to my poor 
charms, that ’tis plain you know nothing of my sis- 
ter’s. Yet I believe her to be in your house, detained 
there by your son.” 

Lord Peterborough shrugged his shoulders * and 
smiled ; he really could not understand why she 
should come complaining to him of his son’s pec- 
cadilloes, but as she was rather attractive, he did not 
object to her doing so. 

“ Que voulez-vous , my dear miss? Iam told our 
English fine ladies now-a-days divide themselves into 
the opposing factions of prudes and coquettes as 
openly as we men into those of Whigs and Tories. 
It cannot be that you have had the cruelty to join the 
prudes. I can assure you, child, that though people 
of fashion may censure your fair sister for form’s sake, 
they have in general too much sense to be severe on 
the amiable weaknesses of a charming young female. 
Consider — ‘ ’Tis Love, ’tis Love that makes the world 
go round.’ For myself, apart from war and politics, 

I have thought every moment ill-spent that was not 
devoted to the fair, and believe me a few years more 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


195 


or less cannot cool the warmth of a heart such as 
this, or make me less entirely the humble servant of 
the ladies. ” And laying his hand on his heart as he 
alluded to it, he ended with a killing look at Esther. 

“ Have the goodness to send for Lord Mordaunt, 
my Lord. If my sister be here, as I feel too well 
assured she is, ” returned Esther, in a voice tremulous 
with indignation, ‘ * she is here against her will. ” 

Lord Peterborough’s temper began also to be ruffled. 
This young woman would end by being a nuisance 
with her eternal sister. After all she was not a great 
beauty. He laughed and tapped his snuff-box. 

“Charming ! Your fair sister is fortunate. She 
has got a lover who is a nobleman and a handsome 
fellow (for I am told the ladies find Mordaunt vastly 
handsome), and — he has carried her off against her 
will. That is the climax of good fortune, but more 
often boasted of than enjoyed. I will summon Mor- 
daunt, though I warrant he will keep you waiting, 
for ’tis the laziest, most unpunctual dog in the uni- 
verse.” 

But contrary to expectation Mordaunt appeared 
almost immediately, though sulky enough at being 
summoned by his father, when he had business of 
his own to attend to. He had changed a little since 
that autumn day at Windsor. He wore a Bolingbroke 
— that is, his own brown hair in curls, tied with a 
ribbon after the manner of the elegant and philosophic 
Secretary of State, and his face, though not less beau- 
tiful in its refined perfection of feature, was thinner 
and yet more pallid than before. Directly he came 
in he caught sight of Esther, and the sulkiness of his 
expression visibly increased. He saluted his father 
with respectful civility, but took no notice of her. 

“You have the honour of Miss Van — Vanbrugh’s 
acquaintance, I presume ? ” interrogated Lord Peter- 
borough, impatient to hand the business over to his 
son, since it promised no amusement. 

“ I have, my Lord,” replied Mordaunt, bowing un- 
graciously. 

“Then why the devil can’t you be civil ? You re 
a charming, gay, good-tempered gallant for a pretty 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


196 

woman, to be sure, and I'm half disposed to think 
’tis true you have run away with one against her 
inclination.” 

“I don’t know what your Lordship is pleased to 
talk about,” returned Mordaunt, “but I think you 
should recognise the name of this — lady. Lady 
Peterborough told me you had been informed of the 
Vanhomrigh affair.” 

“Eh? What? Vanhomrigh? Yes, of course — I 
knew I had heard the name, but I could not for the 
life of me think where. Yes, now I remember. The 
woman that thought to buy the heir of Peterborough 
for a son-in-law with her paltry four thousand pounds. ” 

Lord Peterborough was doubly mortified, first by 
finding his admiration so little appreciated by its ob- 
ject, then by his own stupidity in mistaking this City 
miss — Mordaunt had somewhat exaggerated the mid- 
dling position of the family in his account of the Van- 
homrighs — for a woman of quality. 

Esther rose to her feet. She appeared not to notice 
Lord Peterborough’s observation, but advanced a few 
steps towards Lord Mordaunt and paused. There 
was a minute’s silence which no one broke by a 
movement ; then in a low but imperious voice she 
said : 

“ Lord Mordaunt, where is my sister ? ” 

“Your sister!” cried he, and swore an oath or 
two. 

“Yes, my sister, ’’she continued when he had done. 
“She left Lady Ponsonby’s in your chaise last night — 
I have proof of it — and now I demand to know what 
you have done with her.” 

The young man looked at her for a minute in sullen 
disgust, and then, “ Madam,” he said, “on my hon- 
our, I don’t catch your meaning. ’Tis none of my 
doing if Miss Molly has escaped from your watch 
and ward.” 

“Do you expect me to believe you, my Lord?” 
she asked, holding on to the back of a tall chair that 
happened to be near. “The circumstances forbid it. 
Where is she, if not with you ? ” 

“With some one else, I presume, madam. Miss 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


197 

Molly’s admirers are so numerous that for my part I 
cannot venture to be positive.” 

“Thou infamous creature!” she cried. “None 
better than you know her to be all honour, except in 
so far as yourself may by some devilish device have 
deluded her.” 

In proportion as Esther’s indignation overcame her, 
her antagonist’s coolness became more settled, while 
Lord Peterborough did not conceal his contemptuous 
amusement at the scene. 

“I assure you, madam,” sneered Mordaunt, “I 
have not wit enough to do’t. You sister is vastly too 
well trained to spoil a bargain by an indiscreet kind- 
ness. Let me do a Christian deed, and return blessing 
for cursing, by telling you I consider it a deuced deal 
more likely that, finding your humble servant not to 
be had at her price, she has carried off some gallant 
of fortune to the Fleet, than that she has been carried 
off by him to some more agreeable villeggiatura” 

A Fleet wedding was not so uncommon an affair 
but that Esther might have believed him, if she had 
not been too well convinced that Mordaunt was the 
only man who could have persuaded Molly to such a 
step. She was silent a minute, looking on the ground 
and endeavouring to calm her excitement. 

“My Lord Peterborough, ’’she said, “’tis impossible 
for me to accept this young man’s denial, seeing I 
have such good reason to believe that my sister left 
Lady Ponsonby’s in his company. Will you, as 
master of the house, have the goodness to procure 
me the certainty whether she is or is not in it ? ” 

Now a miracle had lately happened. Lord Peter- 
borough and his lady and his son had found a subject 
on which they were all at one. This was the subject 
of the Vanhomrighs, whom they not unnaturally 
regarded as having attempted to catch the heir to 
an earldom by the stupidest and most barefaced of 
devices. Besides, it would have been Peterborough’s 
natural inclination to take , a man’s part against a 
woman in any case ; this humble servant of the ladies 
habitually regarding them as players on the opposite 
side in a game where there were no rules of honour. 


ESTHER VANHOMRI GH. 


198 

“I vow, madam, you have a great deal of assur- 
ance,” he replied. “ Your money, that is your 
mother’s, has been paid down, and you have no more 
grounds for extortion. I tell you all this pother about 
a trifling amour concerns me not, and I beg you will 
not continue to besiege and annoy me.” 

‘ ‘ Rest assured, my Lord, I shall besiege and annoy 
you by every means in my power,” returned Esther. 
“I know the law gives us women the least possible 
justice, yet my sister is a minor, and it cannot be 
that you can forcibly detain her without punish- 
ment. ” 

Lord Peterborough laughed disdainfully. 

“’Tis a very tender force, I warrant, has been 
necessary to detain the pretty creature. Madam, 
your conduct is ridiculous. I wish you a very good 
morning.” 

“Farewell, Miss Vanhomrigh,” added Lord Mor- 
daunt, with a cynical smile. “I desire that our 
acquaintance may cease. Present my adieux to the 
fair, the chaste Miss Molly, when next you meet her.” 

Father and son were looking in her direction, but 
their eyes seemed simultaneously attracted to some 
object beyond her. 

“Coward!” said Esther in a low voice. “You 
can insult her with impunity. Oh that I were a man, 
or had at least a man by my side ! ” 

The moment of silence, during which she slowly 
loosed her hand from the carved chair, was to her a 
long pause of despair. Then a voice behind her said — 

“Essie ! ” 

Peterborough and Mordaunt had already perceived 
that a door, which appeared to form part of a book- 
shelf in the back of the room, had opened, and a 
young man in a travelling dress was standing in the 
doorway. As Esther finished speaking he advanced 
a few steps towards her. It was he who had said, 
“Essie. ” 

Esther turned and looked at him in bewilderment. 
Then — “Francis — Cousin Francis!” and she ran to 
him and clung to his outstretched hand and arm like 
a drowning creature. “Oh, by what miracle?" 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


199 


• “By luck, Hess, very good luck, if I can be of 
service to you. My Lord Peterborough, there’s some 
mistake here. This gentlewoman is my cousin, and 
I cannot submit to see her used with disrespect, even 
by your Lordship. As to Lord Mordaunt, I see no 
reason why I should submit to anything from him.” 

Francis Earle’s habitually cold and almost non- 
chalant way of speaking made it possible for Lord 
Mordaunt to overlook anything provocative there 
might be in his concluding remark. 

Lord Peterborough hastened forward rubbing his 
hands and laughing, partly in slight embarrassment, 
partly in pleasurable surprise. 

“Faith, my dear boy, I’m very pleased to see you, 
and sorry you should find us and your cousin engaged 
in a trifling dispute. I own we should have been 
more patient of a lady’s tongue. ’Tis the privilege 
of the fair to use it, and I make Miss Vanhomrigh 
my very humble excuses.” 

He took Francis by the shoulders and embraced 
him on both cheeks in the foreign fashion — a mode 
of salutation to which the young man submitted but 
awkwardly. 

“Howcam’st here, lad? I scarce expected you 
would reach Dover till last evening, nor London till 
this.” 

“I came over yesterday with a favourable wind, 
my Lord, and rode hither straight. Joseph let me in 
about six o’clock this morning, but I would on no 
account disturb your Lordship. He showed me into 
the closet yonder, and I fell asleep on the bed there.” 

This was not the first meeting between father and 
son since they had made each other’s acquaintance. 
They had again met in Germany, where his Lordship 
had heard a most gratifying account of the young 
man’s courage and conduct as a soldier. 

“ On my honour,” said Lord Peterborough, smiling 
with pleasure at Francis’ account of his journey. “ I 
myself could hardly have used greater expedition.” 

“ My Lord,” replied Francis, “ tis enough for me 
to have satisfied you. But I have here a private con- 
cern to which you must allow the pas ; for this young 


200 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


gentlewoman is the daughter of the lady who reared 
me up, as I have told you, and to whom you must 
therefore be sensible I am very much beholden.” 

“Oh, ay, no doubt,” returned his Lordship, good- 
naturedly ; “ I believe I remember some such matter, ” 
and he was back at the fire-place, taking snuff. Fran- 
cis had said little, and he had remembered less of the 
boy's earlier circumstances. 

“Essie,” said Francis, taking his cousin's hands, 
but looking at Lord Mordaunt with a look that had 
more meaning in it than his tone, “ I heard you wish 
for a man at your side, and here is one you have 
every right to command, if you will do him the 
honour. Tell me, what should you do, if you were 
a man ? ” 

Essie had all this while been standing close to him, 
scarcely raising her eyes from his coat-sleeve, some- 
what bowed, and at once weakened and comforted 
by his presence. At this question she straightened 
herself suddenly, and turned about almost with a 
bound in the direction of Mordaunt. 

“ I would kill him,” she cried, and pointed at Mor- 
daunt with her fan. 

“What — for a word, Essie ? ” 

“ For word and for deed, Francis. 'Tis proven that 
he took our Moll from a ball last night in his chaise, 
on some excuse he would take her home, but she 
never reached home. You know Moll — all honour 
— all virtue ;” and leaning her elbow on a high shelf 
of the bookcase, she covered her face with her hand 
and began to weep. “God knows where she is,” 
she whispered. 

Francis looked down and bit his lip a moment, but 
showed no other sign of emotion. It was perhaps 
for this reason that Mordaunt thought him but a half- 
hearted, as well as an insignificant antagonist. 

“My Lord,” he said, speaking deliberately, but 
addressing Peterborough, “ I could wish this business 
had fallen to some other man, but you see how I am 
situated. My Lord Mordaunt, 'tis far from my desire 
to push matters to an extremity, but I must ask you 
for some explanation of this circumstance. My cousin 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


201 


is naturally agitated, and may have been hasty in her 
accusation.” 

Mordaunt from the vantage of his great height 
looked down at Mr. Earle very coldly from under his 
full drooping eyelids. 

“Who is this, my Lord?” he asked of his father, 
indicating the young man by a nod. 

Peterborough, who was weary of the matter, and 
had betaken himself to his toothpick for occupation, 
at this point showed more interest. 

“’Tis a -friend of mine, a young gentleman, on 
whom I set a value,” he replied sharply. 

“Friend?” repeated his son, looking steadily at 
Francis. 1 1 1 thought he had been something nearer. ” 

“ I care not to deny it,” returned Peterborough. 

“I heard as much from Germany. He certainly 
favours brother John, who, poor dog, was not the 
beauty of the family.” 

“If you must talk of me, let it be to me, my Lord,” 
interrupted Earle. “ But no matter. What I ask 
you is, if there is any truth in this accusation concern- 
ing Miss Mary Vanhomrigh.” 

Mordaunt looked at him again with a cold but 
bitter anger which Esther’s attack had not been able 
to provoke in him. 

“ Damn the fellow,” he said. “Iam not here to 
answer his impertinent questions, and I shall not. 
If my father chooses to let his base-born brats eat up 
his fortune, I must suffer for’t in mine ; but I’m not 
forced to submit to an acquaintance with ’em.” 

“You’ll not answer my question?” asked Francis 
very deliberately again. Then after a silence — 
stepping up to him— “No? Well, I’ll open your 
mouth — or close it for you ; ” and he struck Mor- 
daunt on the mouth with his open hand. 

‘ ‘ Francis ! ” cried Peterborough, half in enjoyment, 
half in deprecation of his conduct. 

Mordaunt was livid with rage. 

“ He shall fight me, my Lord, indeed he shall ! ” 
cried Francis, stamping his foot. 

Mordaunt, who had a cane at his wrist, raised it 
and struck suddenly and savagely with it. Francis 


202 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


leaped back, and received the blow on his lifted hand 
instead of on his face, at which it was aimed. 

“ My Lord,” said Mordaunt, taking up his hat and 
digging his cane into the carpet, “I suppose I need 
not expect you to bid your servants turn out this 
insolent fellow. I wish you a good morning. I am 
for Windsor.” 

“What? Mordaunt, I say ! My God, sir ! You’ll 
not accept a blow ? ” cried Peterborough, scandalised. 

“I have returned it, my Lord,” replied Mordaunt. 

“I must have satisfaction for Miss Vanhomrigh 
and for myself,” said Francis, placing himself 
between Mordaunt and the door. 

“Ay, certainly; his a matter for honourable satis- 
faction,” announced Peterborough gravely, coming 
forward to act as umpire in the interesting game. 
“I regret it” (the regret was not very visible in his 
manner), “but there is certainly no choice. Mr. 
Earle is a soldier and a gentleman, Mordaunt, and 
you cannot refuse him.” 

“ Cannot refuse him ? ” repeated Mordaunt, haught- 
ily. “Ay, but I can, and mean to. Why should 
the heir of Peterborough pit his life against a found- 
ling’s ? The stakes are not equal, gentlemen.” 

“ H’m ! the swords are,” retorted Francis, and 
pulled out his blade, flashing it in his enemy’s face. 
Peterborough gave a cry of genuine emotion, not at 
the appearance of the naked sword, but at the expres- 
sion that passed over Mordaunt’s face as he started 
back. 

“Hell and damnation !” he cried. “Are you a 
coward, sir? And a son of mine? Oh, 'tis too 
much ! ” and he struck the air violently with his 
clenched right hand, in a passion of mortification. 

Mordaunt recovered himself immediately, but the 
look of fear had been unmistakable. That he was 
a coward was not to be counted among his vices ; it 
was his physical misfortune, as much as the trick of 
swooning that had grown upon him of late, and 
probably proceeded from the same weakness of 
nerves and circulation. In a way his cowardice was 
almost a source of virtue in him, for it was the one 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


203 

defect of which he felt ashamed. To cure or at least 
to conceal it, he had often enough coerced and 
controlled that dear self that otherwise he existed but 
to pamper and respect. But in vain ; an ironic fate 
ordained that he to whom his personal dignity was 
so sacred a thing should be conscious that any 
moment might expose him to the contempt of his 
equals — of those whom, not superiority, but over- 
weening self-importance made him despise. Here- 
tofore he had wonderfully concealed his weakness, 
which indeed seemed not proper to one so proud. % It 
galled him to the quick to have let out the secret in a 
moment, he hardly knew how, to his father and to 
this fellow whom he despised and also hated, as a 
person to whom his father probably gave away 
money. However, he carried it off. 

4 ‘Sure your Lordship is a truly amiable parent,” he 
said, holding his head high. “You will be pleased 
to observe you are hounding on two of you own 
sons to fly at each other's throats, as though they were 
a couple of butcher's dogs." 

Peterborough laughed loud, but not cheerfully. 

“ 'Tis touching to hear such a fine domestic 
homily from Mordaunt," he cried; yet he could not 
but blush a little for himself. Then — “Mr. Earle, 
let him pass. 'Tis true, he is your brother and my 
son." 

Francis obeyed, and Lord Mordaunt went out, 
without closing the door behind him. After a mo- 
ment’s hesitation Francis slipped out after him. Mor- 
daunt was walking slowly down the wide, magnifi- 
cent staircase, which began with a short flight of 
stairs and then branched off into two longer but 
equally broad flights on each side of a landing. 
Francis spoke his name, but he took no notice. 
Then, going down one step and leaning forward, 
with one hand on the broad polished oak rail of the 
balustrade, Francis spoke quickly and low to his 
back. 

“You'll understand, my Lord, 'tis only my grati- 
tude to Lord Peterborough that forbids my straight 
proceeding to the extremity. I care not a jot for our 


204 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


kinship. If you have played the villain to my cousin, 
why, I'll kill you if I can. Whatever the event, I lose 
either my life or my good hopes of fortune by it ; so 
never say the stakes are not heavy enough.” 

As he finished speaking, Mordaunt reached the 
landing. He went at the same pace a little way down 
the left-hand flight of stairs, without making any 
sign that he had heard his antagonist’s words ; then 
he did not so much look at Francis, as turn his face 
somewhat in his direction and show on it a smile of 
quiet, haughty mockery and immovable contempt. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Mordaunt’s speculation had turned out singularly 
successful in the matter of the money which Ginckel 
Vanhomrigh had advanced to him. In the autumn 
of 1712 he had had heavy gambling losses. That 
evening at the Manor, when he and Ginckel had 
lost a considerable sum to Ponsonby and Raikes, had 
left him penniless and indebted ; the next evening, 
when he played with Ginckel in hopes of retrieving 
something of his fortune, he lost again. He knew 
not where to turn, for the money-lenders between 
Peterborough and himself were tired of the name of 
Mordaunt, and it would also be the worse for him if 
his father should find him following too closely in his 
steps. Ginckel on the contrary was unusually flush, 
for he had had some great strokes of luck, and had 
also received an old debt due to the late Mr. Van- 
homrigh. So it came about that after long talking 
round the subject, Mordaunt made a half-jesting 
attempt to borrow money from Ginckel, and Ginckel, 
also as it were in jest, declared himself to know too 
much of his Lordship’s affairs to believe in repay- 
ment, unless some extraordinary penalty could be 
devised to induce it ; such, for instance, as a written 
promise to marry— well, say, their old nurse in de- 
fault. And somehow his sister presently took the 
place of the nurse. Mordaunt, whose mind moved 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGII. 


205 


quickly when he pleased, saw here a double oppor- 
tunity. He knew that his mother, stubborn as she 
had recently shown herself, would produce any sum 
at whatever cost rather than submit to his mis-allying 
himself. And he could talk to her about his honour, 
and she would believe in it. Meantime the young 
lady would be certain to hear of the matter from her 
brother, and he himself could allude mysteriously to 
a certain arrangement made in jest, which yet might 
turn to earnest ; and in this way his pursuit of Miss 
Molly, in which he was just then beginning to take 
a surprising interest, would as he hoped be greatly 
furthered. As to Ginckel, being an exceedingly 
foolish person, especially when he thought to be a 
sharp dealer, he really believed that this written pro- 
mise would have some binding effect on Mordaunt, 
who might come to consider marrying a toast prefer- 
able to raising the money. If the worst came to the 
worst, he thought, an action would lie for breach of 
promise of marriage. Mordaunt had a shrewd sus- 
picion this would not be the case, as the promise had 
been made only to a third party. It was not won- 
derful that Ginckel should have no scruple in taking 
some of his sister’s money for the purpose of secur- 
ing her so fine a match — for the heir of Peterborough 
was a personage, and Ginckel did not know his pe- 
cuniary affairs so well as he had said. He had hon- 
estly intended to re-invest the money for her, should 
it be repaid. However when the moment of repay- 
ment came, hardly a week after the chance news of 
the Parisian lady’s widowhood, the spirit of the 
gambler overcame him. He re-invested his sister’s 
money indeed, but in his own matrimonial venture. 

Mordaunt’s speculation had succeeded perfectly so 
far as his mother was concerned. She had paid. 
But in another respect it had failed. He had takeu 
more pains for Miss Molly than he had ever intended 
to take for any woman, and he was sure she was in 
love with him ; yet after more than eighteen months 
of troublesome courtship, he found himself no further 
than at the beginning. His comrades began to see 
through his enigmatic silences on the subject and to 


206 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


taunt him with being either ridiculously backward or 
less beloved by the fair Vanhomrigh than he had 
hinted. If it had not been for the lively interest Pon- 
sonby and Raikes succeeded in keeping up in his 
love-affair, he would have dropped it much earlier. 
His passion, if so it might be called, for Miss Molly 
had cooled ; but this little rub she had innocently 
given his vanity must be atoned for, though with 
her heart s blood. It was therefore understood be- 
tween him and Ponsonby and Raikes that at Lady 
Ponsonby’s ball he was to engage Miss Molly in an 
elopement to Windsor. If the trouble of arranging 
the details of the elopement had fallen on him, it is 
possible he might have preferred losing some prestige 
to exerting himself so far. But this was undertaken 
by the others, who threw themselves into the busi- 
ness with boyish energy and enjoyment, undisturbed 
by any sense of their own villainy ; which indeed was 
due mainly to their want of intelligence, that would 
have led them to accept any standard of conduct 
that was accepted in the world to which they 
belonged. And in this world of some hundred and 
eighty years since, a world where women had attained 
to quite an ideal state of ignorance, of straitened 
activities and helpless dependence on men, somehow 
that chivalry to which such a state of things is sup- 
posed mightily to conduce, was conspicuous by its 
absence. 

When Mordaunt, languid but very handsome in his 
own hair and a white brocaded suit with gold em- 
broidery, stepped out of his chair at Lady Ponsonby’s, 
he was a good deal bored by the prospect of the 
elopement ; all the more perhaps because of Pon- 
sonby’s garrulous excitement on the subject. By the 
time he had secured Miss Molly as his partner for 
the evening, however, his interest in the matter 
began to revive. She was looking so exceedingly 
pretty, and attracted so much attention, as he walked 
a minuet with her. The town would talk when it 
heard he had run away with the fair Vanhomrigh. 

A ball in those days meant only a modicum of 
dancing for the individual, and even in Lady Pon- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


207 

sonby’s long ball-room, not more than three couples 
could go through their minuet at a time. There was 
much conversation and walking about the reception- 
rooms and the marble terrace, which ran along the 
garden-front of the house, and on to which the 
ball-room opened by glass doors. It was a large 
handsome room, painted in fresco by an Italian 
artist with a jumble of architectural decorations and 
dishevelled gods and goddesses ; and being all done 
with the facile, somewhat vulgar Italian cleverness, 
and being something foreign and new in decoration, 
it was the object of much admiration and comment. 
The front of the house was illuminated, and the 
terrace set with small tables of refreshments. Such 
of the company as pleased walked and sat there, and 
looked in at the dancers through the long windows 
of the ball-room. A few years later, when the great 
world went habitually to Ranelagh and Vauxhall, 
there would have been nothing very novel in the 
arrangement, but just then it was novel, and con- 
sequently delighted some of the guests and shocked 
others. Mrs. Harris was one of those whom it 
shocked, and she endeavoured to prevent Molly 
from going out on the terrace, alleging that she 
would catch a great cold though the night was still 
warm. Mr. Ponsonby flew at once to find Miss 
Vanhomrigh’s shawl. Mrs. Harris meantime whis- 
pered in her ear that it was highly unbecoming for a 
young woman to walk out with gentlemen at that 
hour, and she trusted Molly meant to behave her- 
self. Molly, who would not be corrected by Cousin 
Harris, answered out loud : 

“Pooh, my good cousin, do you think decorum 
resides in the ceiling?” and she bestowed a smile of 
thanks on Ponsonby, who arrived with the shawl, 
but left Mordaunt to put it round her. 

So Mrs. Harris, considerably huffed, remained 
indoors while Molly and a little party of other young 
people of whom she was the centre, ate iced syl- 
labubs on the terrace ; which being lighted both by 
lamps and the moon, and having the walls of the 
house on three sides, was certainly not a very dark 


2o8 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


and dangerous wilderness for Lady Ponsonby’s flock 
to wander in. Below it was a trim parterre freshly 
laid out with statues and flower-beds, and bounded 
on the other side by a square piece of water with 
four fountains in it. The fountains were new, but 
the water had formed part of the ornamental grounds 
of an older house, and down the sides of it ran 
pleached walks of fruit-trees. It was intended to 
have a display of fireworks on the terrace, but this 
was kept to the last so that the moon might not 
interfere with their effect. Now Molly was very 
anxious to stay for the fireworks, and also for the 
country-dances which were to wind up the ball. 
Indeed she would willingly have prolonged to any 
extent this delightful evening. She was too natural 
and too coquettish not to enjoy thoroughly all the 
flattery and attention which fell to her share ; but it 
was not that in itself which made her at the height 
of enjoyment. It was the altered behaviour of Mor- 
daunt, who from having been cold and neglectful of 
late, had suddenly more than resumed his former 
lover-like bearing. To any but a blinded eye his 
love-making must have seemed a poor thing at best, 
but with enough good-will there is no coldness that 
may not be construed to mean modesty, no silence 
that may not be supposed to cover tender thoughts. 

Mrs. Harris, after the first half-hour of gratified 
curiosity and wonder at the fine people and things 
about her, began to feel her isolation in this world 
to which she did not belong. Her companion pre- 
sented her to acquaintances, but as she had neither 
wit, beauty, easy manners nor the small personal 
interests in common with her interlocutors which 
usually go further than all three, they quickly passed 
on and left her as before. There are persons who 
find some entertainment in wandering about a crowd, 
practically invisible because unknown and unob- 
served, but Mrs. Harris was not one of these. She 
began to think she had a headache, and did not regret 
that she had so faithfully promised her husband to be 
home by midnight. Molly was of course unwilling 
to leave before the country-dances had begun or the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


209 

fireworks been let off, and there was again a differ- 
ence of opinion between the two young women, 
each of whom mentally pronounced the other exceed- 
ingly selfish for sticking to her own point of view. 
Mrs. Harris, however, had the advantage, since she 
was in authority ; but when she came to look for her 
charge she could not find her. Mr. Ponsonby was 
very forward in calling her chair and in helping her 
to seek, whereby he succeeded in preventing her 
from finding the delinquent. Then Lord Mordaunt 
came up with Molly's shawl over his arm, and in his 
slowest manner informed her it would be positive 
cruelty to the company to remove her fair cousin at 
this heathenish hour ; that since Mrs. Harris was 
promised to go, Miss Vanhomrigh would not for the 
world detain her, but that the young lady had so far 
honoured him as to consent to take a seat in his 
chaise for her return home, as his Lordship would be 
passing St. James' Street on his way back to Peter- 
borough House. At this Mrs. Harris, who naturally 
did not guess this stately young nobleman to be 
lying, waited not for confirmation of his tale, but 
bounced into her chair and back to her lodgings, 
to pour her indignation into the sleepy and quite 
unelectrified ear of her Mr. Harris. 

After the minuets and the figure dances and the sup- 
per, the country-dances were to begin. These were 
to Molly, as to most other young people, by far the 
most delightful of all, in spite of the fact that Mor- 
daunt never danced them. A man of quality owed 
it to himself to perform respectably in a minuet, just 
as he must be able when necessary, to take off his 
hat in a manner that should show his court breeding. 
But a country-dance was unnecessary ; Mordaunt 
did not like it, and therefore pronounced it contemp- 
tible. To Molly’s surprise, however, this evening, 
instead of handing her over to some more willing 
and active partner, he evidently meant to stand up 
with her. 

“What, my Lord ! " she cried with a triumphant 
smile, “ recollect yourself ! Here’s a dance you have 
constantly declared to be meant for bumpkins at a 

14 


210 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


country wake, or ’prentices at Barthelmy Fair. You’ll 
repent this before you are an hour older. ” 

“No, no. I believe I shall be too happy,” he re- 
plied with a smile. “ You shall tell me how to do’t. 
Only with your leave we will not lead off. Hark ! 
the fiddles are beginning. Is it the Barley Mow or 
the French Rigadoon ? I vow I can’t tell the differ- 
ence. ” 

So they took their places, and all at once the two 
long gaily coloured lines of men and women, ranged 
in opposite rows, swayed forward like flowers in a 
wind, all bending together in the slow grace of the 
preliminary bow and curtsey. Up they stood again 
with a clink of swords and a rustle of silks, the first 
couples began to turn, and presently under the 
painted goddesses and the countless wax-lights, 
there was a long shifting maze of brightness and 
colour ; of fair arching arms and jewelled hands, that 
rose and clasped and fell to the music ; of young 
heads, blonde and brown, bright with flowers or 
starred with gems, winding and turning, crossing 
and re-crossing among the long soft flaxen perukes, 
dear to the heart of beaux. Innumerable diamonds 
flashed from white breasts or cloudy lace with the 
movement of the dance and the merry gestures of 
the wearers ; painted fans fluttered joyously and rich 
petticoats passed billowing in and out amongst the 
stiffer lines of coat-skirts as rich. And as it went on 
the fiddles could not drown an occasional ripple of 
laughter, mixed with the ceaseless tapping of little 
heels and the murmur of broken talk. Molly, to 
whom usually the motion and the music of the dance 
were in themselves too delightful to allow of her 
greatly regarding her partner, did not lose to-night 
the happy sense that Mordaunt was there opposite. 
They danced several different dances. At last it 
happened, though scarcely by chance, that just as 
she and Mordaunt come to the end of the room near 
the glass doors, there was an explosion immediately 
outside them. 

“ The fireworks ! ” cried Mordaunt. “ Deuce take 
the dancing ! ” and seizing her by the hand, he posi- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


2 1 1 


tively ran out of the window and down the terrace 
steps, snatching her shawl from Ponsonby as he 
went, and throwing it round her shoulders. Molly 
ran by his side, laughing and feeling as if this were 
only a new figure in the dance. In the parterre 
there was already a crowd assembled waiting to see 
the fireworks. Still holding Molly firmly by the 
hand, he passed through the edge of it and a little 
way down the pleached walk, before he dropped into 
a walk. 

“Nay, miss, I'll not let you desert me,” he said, 
as she showed signs of stopping ; “I have a mind to 
see the fireworks across the water. They’ll look 
finely. Pray now, dear Miss Molly, do not be cruel, 
but come and see ’em too.” 

Molly, excited, bewildered, and above all charmed 
by this swift impulsiveness so unlike his usual man- 
ner, gave a hasty assent. She had no sooner given 
it and was walking in silence by his side, thah she 
felt curiously sobered. The rays of the setting moon 
gleamed on the spring foliage overhead, the air was 
sweet with the odour of the last hawthorn blossoms, 
and the sound of music, softened by distance, floated 
to them from the open windows of the ball-room. 
Had she ever pictured herself in a day-dream walk- 
ing hand in hand with Mordaunt under such roman- 
tic circumstances, it would have seemed a thing too 
delightful to come true. But it was real, and far 
from enjoying the situation she was bitterly annoyed 
with herself for having consented to it, and yet 
ashamed to go back on her consent. It would have 
been easy at first to make an excuse for returning 
towards the terrace, but now at every step she took 
it seemed harder. She could only make up her mind 
not to stay long, and hope no one had recognised 
them as they passed through the dark parterre. As 
they turned the corner out of the pleached walk, 
which was not continued on the side of the water 
opposite the house, she thought she heard a cracking 
of twigs among the bushes. 

“Oh ! ” she cried, in a low voice, “is there any 
one there ? Or — or do you think ’tis an animal ? ” 


212 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“Pretty trembler!” returned Mordaunt. “Dost 
think there be lions in Marylebone? Nay, if thou 
art to be devoured, it shall be this way.” 

And putting his arm round her waist he kissed her 
several times. Now a kiss taken civilly, if no longer 
a form of friendly salutation, was still not held mat- 
ter for offence ; but there was a careless freedom in 
Lord Mordaunt’s manner and conduct which greatly 
displeased Molly. 

“Fie, my Lord ! ” she said. 

Just at this moment they were aware of a banging 
and crackling and a dozen jets of multitudinous flames 
leaping up from the length of the terrace. They 
could hear the long-drawn “ Oh ! ” of the crowd in 
the parterre. Molly started back out of the glare that 
came across the water into the shadow of a great 
thorn-bush just behind them. He followed her, 
nothing loth, since he had an uneasy suspicion that 
Tom Raikes, in spite of his promise to depart as soon 
as he had done his work, might be eavesdropping in 
the bushes by the path. 

“Dear timorous charmer ! ” he said, “ I protest 'tis 
lucky we were no nearer the fireworks, else you had 
been frightened to death. Come now, these arms 
shall protect thee.” And he again put his arm round 
her. Molly started away pettishly. 

“ Tilly vally, my Lord ! I mind not the fireworks 
a brass token — that is by comparison. But you must 
be sensible that I — that you — that we should be — be 
thought singular in fine, were we observed here.” 

It never occurred to Lord Mordaunt to suppose 
that Molly really disliked being there with him, but 
she was coyer than he had expected. Meantime 
there was his chaise waiting on the other side of the 
paddock, and perhaps Raikes in the bushes, ready to 
die with laughter should he be discomfited. This 
thought made him speak low and gave an earnest- 
ness to his wooing that it might otherwise have 
lacked. 

“ What ! must Love be bound by the cold rules of 
the censorious ? ” he asked. “ By heaven, my lovely 
charmer, 'tis impossible ! ” And the distant light 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


213 

from the terrace, falling through the scattered leaves 
and blossoms of the old thorn, showed him sighing 
with his hand in his bosom. It was a becoming light, 
and he thought he had never seen Miss Molly look so 
pretty as she did now, standing there by the tree, 
half in shadow, with her serious, half-doubtful face 
and shining eyes lifted to his. He seized her hands 
and laid them on his bosom. 

“ Cruel, cruel fair ! Is t possible thou hast no pity 
on this heart, that suffers all the torments and flames 
of Love ? But yet His you, enchanting creature, that 
inflict ’em. Do you not love me, charming Miss 
Molly? — O, I am sure you do.” 

As. he ended the fireworks went out, leaving black 
darkness behind them. 

“Yes, yes, Ido,” murmured Molly, after a little 
pause, and he felt her hands were trembling. This 
time she did not resent his kiss ; but somehow the 
declaration which she had so often sighed for did 
not thrill her with bliss. The lover of her dreams, 
although he wore the name and face of Mordaunt, 
was a creature of the imagination, and the real man, 
had he been better than he was, would have suffered 
by the comparison. 

“ I am yours — O yes,” she returned, in answer to 
a tender inquiry murmured in her ear. “But let us 
go back, pray let us go back now.” 

The fireworks broke out again on the terrace, and 
slipping from his arms she ran towards the pleached 
walk, followed more leisurely by Mordaunt. There 
was an iron railing across the end of the walk, with 
a gate in it, which had been open when they came 
through. Indeed, owing to the darkness, Molly had 
not observed it. Now the gate was closed. She 
pushed it with all her might, but it was evidently 
locked. 

• “Come, come quick, my Lord ! ” she cried, stamp- 
ing her little high-heeled shoe impatiently. “Pray 
open this gate for me.” 

“Why, dear miss, His locked,” returned he, trying 
it. “This is very strange, but ’tis a spring-lock, and 
must have shut to behind us.” 


214 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“Quick ! Let us try the other side,” she said, and 
was starting off, but he caught hold of her. 

“My charmer, ’tis useless,” he replied. “ I believe 
’tis years since the opposite gate was opened.” 

“0 my Lord, can you not climb it ? ” asked Molly 
earnestly. Lord Mordaunt could not forbear laugh- 
ing. 

“ Do you take me for a baboon, Miss Molly? ” he 
asked. Then — “But what matter, my angel? You 
must not go. You must not leave me now, in this 
happy moment ; ’twould break my heart. Sure you 
cannot love me if you will not stay an instant to hear 
me swear again I love you.” 

“O my dear Lord, think of my reputation,” cried 
she anxiously. 

“Reputation! — Distracting girl! I can think, I 
will think of nought but love. A kind fate has 
separated us from the crowd, but there’s a way out 
yonder at the end of the paddock, and we’ll fly to- 
gether.” 

“Pray let us go that way and steal into the house 
again as softly as we may,” returned Molly eagerly. 

“ ’Tis this way,” replied Mordaunt, pointing down 
a path, in the opposite direction to the house ; and 
following her close as she immediately hurried along 
it, he continued, laying his hand on her arm : “ But 

if you contrive to slip in at the great door, and that 
in the plight you will be in when you get there, un- 
observed by half the footmen in London, why, th% 
devil’s in it. Besides though we now are near the 
house, the shortest road to it is a long way round and 
by a dirty foot-path, and you will be missed before 
you can possibly reach it. ” 

Molly stopped. 

“O Lord Mordaunt, I shall go distracted ! Let us 
return and call for assistance ; some one will certainly 
hear us.” 

“ Dear miss, I thought you was so careful. What 
could give greater scandal than to discover yourself 
here ? ” 

“ Then let us go on,” returned Molly, starting off 
again; “’tis plain- we must go somewhere. Even 


ESTHER VANHOMR/GH. 


215 

you, my dear Lord, will hardly propose that we should 
wait in the paddock till morning, to be let out when 
the cows are let in. ” 

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, he 
with his hand slipped under her elbow and sighing 
like a man desperate. And it was not every bit of it 
pretence, for he had really got interested in his part, 
which perhaps caused him to miss an opportunity. 
They now turned a corner and saw a bright speck 
of light, which he knew to be the lamp of his own 
chaise, showing a gate at the end of the path. He 
had not the least intention of carrying off Miss Van- 
homrigh by force. The suburban road round the 
house would just now be full of coaches and chairs 
and linkmen, and so troublesome an affair was not 
to his taste. But could he have plausibly explained the 
position of the chaise, and persuaded her she would 
reach the house again quickest by jumping into it, 
he could have taken her far in this neighbourhood, 
which was strange to her, before she would have 
discovered the deception. But when they were ap- 
proaching the gate, it seemed to him to be necessary 
to bring matters to a crisis. 

“Ah!” she cried, “how glad I am to see the 
gate ! But can it be locked ? ” 

“'Tis open,” he replied. “But, my sweetest girl,” 
and he here took her hands and stood before her in 
such a way as to stop her passage, “my adored Miss 
Molly, you will gain nothing by this except the death 
of a devoted lover. For I assure you,” — and all 
the time he was kissing her hands — “ I have deter- 
mined not to survive it, if you refuse to be mine. 
No, I will not leave this place without you. You 
love me, I know it; and I love you, dear, charming 
creature, to distraction. Fly with me, fly with me 
immediately.” 

Mordaunt was surprised at his own fervour, and 
Molly at the coldness with which she listened to him. 
She did not take his proposal seriously, but supposed 
it to be a mere piece of boyish impetuosity and 
lover’s raving. 

“ Fie, my Lord ! ” she said. “You know not what 


21 6 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


you say. I’ll marry you to-morrow if you please, 
and anywhere you please, but not without my 
mothers knowledge. This is foolishness. Pray, pray 
let us go on,” and she pressed forward. 

“Heavens, child!” he cried, still keeping close 
to her. “Do you not see these cold scruples come 
too late? They will seek for you in vain, and 
your return will be observed. Believe me, ’tis too 
late.” 

“I am surprised you should say so, my Lord,” 
she returned warmly. “ If my reputation should be 
lost, I h^ve still my honour to consider.” 

“ Honour, child ! ” he said, in the tone of one who 
smiles indulgently. “ Why, you talk like a country 
wench. Yet you have lived in the world, and know 
that ‘honour’ is but a word it cheats fools with, and 
marriage — ye gods ! How Love trembles and flies 
before the word ! Leave talking of it, till thou’rt 
weary of me, and hast leisure to bargain with me 
for pin-money. Let’s name nothing but Love. 1 
find matter in it now for more discourses than ever 
I thought to make in a lifetime.” 

“Then, my Lord,” she replied, in a steady tone 
of voice, the import of which he did not perceive, “I 
am to understand that your love for me is such that 
you propose I should fly with you impromptu, and 
leave talking of marriage till some more convenient 
time.” 

“ Even so, my sweetest creature. I shall not keep 
my senses, I swear I shall not, if you refuse me. 
But sure, you’ll never be so cruel. You see the light 
yonder ? Look ! ’tis the torch of Love to light us on 
our road.” 

“What I see appears more like the lamp of a 
chaise,” she returned, with a sudden little tremulous 
laugh — for they had now got near the gate. “But 
no matter. Whither should it light us ? ” 

“To Windsor, child,” he cried triumphantly, and 
put his arm round her. 

“How comes the chaise there, my Lord?” she 
asked, in a voice again steadied by such an effort that 
it sounded indifferent. “ Whose is it ? ” 


ESTHER VANHOMR/GH. 


217 

“ Tis yours, my angel, yours ; that and everything 
else I possess.” 

So quick is thought that in the moment that he 
stooped his tall head to bring it close above hers, it 
passed through his mind that the game was won ; 
at the expense no doubt of a confounded deal of 
talking, but somehow the eloquence had flowed with 
much less trouble than he would have supposed. 
As his curls brushed the fading flowers in Molly's 
hair, right in his face, fierce and direct as a blow, 
came the words — 

*“ Liar ! Base, treacherous creature ! I detest thee ! ” 

And as at a blow a man's wrath will blaze up to 
the height instantaneously, so at these words Mor- 
daunt started away from her in a passion of bitter 
anger. 

“Why, madam,” he cried, “how long is it since 
you swore you loved me — loved me with all your 
dear little heart? Is’t ten minutes or fifteen? Not 
twenty, I’ll take my oath. You know you said you 
loved me, and I advise you for your own sake to 
stand by your words. If you don't, pray what 
excuse have you for being here ? Answer me that, 
Miss Molly.” 

Molly, after that one burst of uncontrollable indig- 
nation, had regained an external calmness. “'Tis 
true, my Lord, I loved you ; but you have very com- 
pletely cured me of that folly.” 

“I perceive, Miss Molly. You loved the name 
of Lady Mordaunt, you loved the charming idea of 
figuring at a Birthday in the Peterborough pearls, and 
making the women die with envy of your fine match 
— one indeed that I admire you should pretend to.” 

“You have so insulted me by your conduct, my 
Lord, that your words are of small importance. Pray, 
has your Lordship’s footman orders to lay hands on 
me, if I should pass the gate yonder ? ” 

“Be easy, madam. I would put no force on a 
lady, save such as might give her an excuse for fol- 
lowing her inclinations. I never imagined you was 
one to require that excuse. Indeed, madam, 'twill 
vastly surprise the gallants of your acquaintance to 


2l8 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


hear of your virtuous behaviour ; you that was so 
diverting, so free, so obliging a young woman. Had 
you been a prude now or a country hoyden, I had 
respected your innocence, but for you that know the 
world and jest at it to affect surprise at my design 
— ah ! ah ! ’tis very ridiculous. ” 

“I have seen wicked men, my Lord, as I have 
seen the lions at the Tower, but I no more feared to 
find 'em among my private friends than I feared to 
meet a lion in St. James’. O, how have I injured 
you that you should use me thus shamefully ? I 
own ’twas my folly to love you, but it deserved not 
this punishment.” 

“ ’Tis a lady’s privilege to play the victim,” returned 
Mordaunt, relapsing into his more usual sulkiness ; 
and he continued, quite believing his own contention : 
“I have a better right than you, Miss Molly, to com- 
plain of deception. You encourage my love to the 
utmost, and when its violence makes me take the 
shortest way to win you, you affect horror and sur- 
prise at it. I might believe you merely a finished 
coquette, were it not for that matter of the money ; 
but that discovers your design.” 

“What money?” asked Molly. “What do you 
mean ? ” 

‘ * Swear you know nought of it, madam. That’s writ 
in your part. But you know enough to understand 
me when I say there’s no victim in the case. You 
had your design on me, I mine on you. Neither 
of us has succeeded, and we are quits. But I will be 
generous and drive you back to Lady Ponsonby’s, 
that you may make your curtsey at the last, and con- 
tradict any report that may have got abroad there 
to your disadvantage.” 

“I will accept nothing of you, perfidious man,” 
returned she. “ You may again deceive me. I will 
return, I will return at once, but not with you. O, I 
am mad to delay here ! ” 

And before he had fully realised her intention, she 
had rushed forward, slipped through the iron gate, 
which was ajar, and disappeared into the darkness of 
the lane beyond. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


2I 9 

When Mordaunt had so suddenly removed his arm 
from Molly’s shoulder, her shawl had come off, hav- 
ing caught in the gold embroidery of his coat, and all 
the time he had been talking in this very unwonted 
state of excitement, he had been grasping it mechan- 
ically. He scarcely realised he had it till she had 
gone. He came to the gate and called her name once, 
but there was no response. He stood there a minute 
or so staring into the darkness ; then, the footman got 
down and opened the door of the chaise. Lord Mor- 
daunt flung him the shawl with a curse, got into the 
chaise, and pulling his hat over his eyes, ordered the 
coachman to drive to a genteel gaming-house which, 
late as it was, he had some hopes of finding open. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Esther’s expedition to Peterborough House ended 
more satisfactorily than it had promised to do. That 
is, the house was thoroughly searched, though with- 
out any result beyond the verification of the fact that 
Molly’s shawl had been brought back there by Lord 
Mordaunt’s chaise. She was now anxious to get 
back to St. James’ Street, and Lord Peterborough, 
who out of complacency towards Francis was now 
all courtesy, sent a footman to show her the shortest 
path across Tuthill Fields to the Park. Francis accom- 
panied her a part of the way, but was to return to 
Peterborough House, as he and his Lordship had cer- 
tain matters of importance to talk over. The door in 
the high garden-wall of Peterborough House opened 
into a thick coppice of hazels overshadowed by taller 
trees, and the footpath wound for a little through a 
wilderness of nettles and briars, and such coarse grass 
as will grow under trees. But very soon it ran into 
one of the common walks of Tuthill Fields, and here 
the cousins parted. 

While they were walking so far together, Essie had 
had time to hear how naturally the apparent miracle 
of Francis’ appearance in Peterborough House had 


220 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


occurred. Francis had, with that superfluous discre- 
tion that was his foible, respected a wish which Lord 
Peterborough had expressed early in their acquaint- 
ance, and which his Lordship himself had long ago 
forgotten. In obedience to it he had told the very 
few friends whom he had left behind him in England 
no more of his circumstances than that, owing to the 
unexpected patronage of a nobleman, he had been 
sent abroad to serve under Prince Eugene, in accord- 
ance with his own wishes. As to the nature of his 
business in England now, and the reason for so sud- 
den and secret an arrival, that he did not at this time 
confide to Essie. The truth was he was employed 
as a trusty messenger to bring the last news from St. 
Germains to Peterborough, who purposed to find him 
employment in this way so long as the Queen lived, 
and afterwards to buy him a regiment in England. 
There was only one other person whose arrival on 
the scene could have been a greater comfort to Essie, 
and he was in Berkshire. The twenty months that 
had passed since Francis Earle left England had trans- 
formed him from a somewhat waspish, discontented 
youth into a man. Essie had had neither sufficient 
time nor calmness of mind to dwell on the alteration 
in him, but she felt it. Though the situation was 
really unchanged, it was with a lightened heart that 
she walked across the Park and turned up St. James' 
Street. In her absence Mrs. Harris had been to 
inquire after Mrs. Vanhomrigh, had gone all over the 
house to find her cousins, and now came to meet 
Esther with an ominous face. 

“I am pleased to find my Aunt Vanhomrigh 
better, Cousin Essie ; I felt sure Dr. Barker would do 
her a vast deal of good. I wish I could feel as easy 
about Cousin Molly ; but I have rapped at her door 
till my knuckles ache, I have shaken it till I was 
tired, and not a sign has she made.” 

“O, Molly will sleep like the dead,” returned 
Esther, “and very certainly I shall not waken her.” 

“ I have looked through the keyhole,” continued 
the inexorable Mrs. Harris, “and— well, there’s a 
feeling about the room. Believe me, my dear 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


221 


cousin,” and here her eyes got very round and her 
voice very low and emphatic, “believe me that 
room is empty.” 

“It is, Cousin Harris. Here is the key,” replied 
Esther, taking the key out of her pocket. “ Now 
perhaps, having gratified your curiosity, you will 
have the goodness to hold your tongue for the 
honour of the family, or to say that my sister was 
seized with a sudden indisposition at the ball last 
night. ” 

Mrs. Harris, conscious of having said something 
quite different to several people already, became 
somewhat red. 

“ I doubt 'twill be useless. Plenty must have 
seen the unfortunate creature go off with Lord Mor- 
daunt.” 

‘ * Did you see her go ? ” asked Essie. “How do you 
know she went? ” 

“ How do I know ? Lord ha' mercy, cousin, d'ye 
think I speak without book? Why, his Lordship 
told me himself. ‘Miss Vanhomrigh will so far 
honour me as to ride home with me,' says he.'' 

“He may not have spoken the truth,” replied 
Essie ; “oh, I wish I knew the truth ! ” 

“I'm very much concerned for you and Aunt Van- 
homrigh, and pity you from my soul,” said Mrs. 
Harris, and she spoke sincerely: “but that your 
little baggage of a sister has run off with the young 
lord is as plain, as plain a§ ” 

She paused for a comparison, and a voice from be- 
hind the door supplied it. “As a prophecy in Mr. 
Partridge's Almanack ; and confound the scurvy event 
that proves it otherwise.” 

A voice from the grave could hardly have startled 
Mrs. Harris more. For all reply she turned round 
and fell into an attitude of astonishment. For Molly 
walked in, wrapped in a long shapeless frieze cloak 
with a hood which covered her head and half her 
face. 

“Molly!” cried Esther. “Oh, where have you 
been ? ” 

“ J have had the foolishest adventure, my dear,” 


222 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


replied Molly. “I have been knocked over by a 
hackney coach, and am scarce in my senses yet, I 
believe.” And she threw off her cloak and showed a 
torn muddy dress, a very pale face with a bright red 
spot on each cheek and a cut on one, and a bruise 
on her temple. One arm too was bound up. 

“O Moll ! ” and Essie flew across the room and 
laid her hands on her sisters shoulders. “Thank 
Heaven I see thee safe ! And I have been to Peter- 
borough House for thee this morning.” 

“So you thought I had gone away with Lord 
Mordaunt ! ” exclaimed Molly. “And you cried me 
over Peterborough House! I’ll never forgive you.” 

And she turned and fled upstairs, leaving Esther to 
get rid of Mrs. Harris. This she did speedily, but 
whether the lady considered Molly's strange reap- 
pearance as a convincing proof of her innocence in 
the matter of Lord Mordaunt, is exceedingly doubt- 
ful. The question was how a young lady who was, 
or should have been, in a sedan-chair, got run over 
by a hackney coach, and that unobserved by her 
friends. The circumstance was suspicious, yet it 
grew quite naturally out of Molly’s adventure with 
Lord Mordaunt. The way round to the front of 
the Ponsonbys’ house from the back lane was, as he 
had said, much longer and more intricate than it 
seemed likely to be. When Molly hurried away in 
the darkness feeling very nervous and quite ignorant 
of the neighbourhood, she missed the footpath that 
would have taken her round to the house. She fled 
on and on along the high boundary walls of suburban 
properties, where here and there an oil-lamp over a 
gateway showed her the miry way she was treading, 
but never any turning in the desired direction nor 
any nocturnal wayfarer of whom she might ask her 
way. She continued walking and running, some- 
times stopping to thrust her little silk-stockinged 
feet further into hershoes, which were limp with mud 
and the drizzling rain which was beginning to fall, or 
to draw her petticoats up closer round her, and be- 
coming more and more frightened at the position in 
which she found herself. At last she reached a high 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


223 

road, which she knew must be some distance from the 
Ponsonbys’, and along- which chaises, coaches and 
chairs were passing at no long intervals. She had now 
determined to go home as best she could, as, even if 
she could find her way back to the ball, she was not 
fit to appear there ; so she walked along the road in 
what she took to be the direction of London. Mean- 
time she kept a sharp look-out on the vehicles that 
pasbed her and was at last sure she recognised the 
liveries of a friend on a passing chariot. She ran 
after it, calling in vain to the coachman to stop, and 
it was then that she was knocked down and run over 
by a hackney coach. She lay there bleeding and in- 
sensible on the ground, and in these days would cer- 
tainly have been conveyed to the nearest hospital. 
In default of that the driver, who was returning home 
and had no fare, drove her to a small tavern in the 
neighbourhood kept by a relation of his own. Molly 
remained there at first in a state of insensibility, and. 
afterwards unable, owing to her injuries and the lack 
of hired vehicles, to return home. There was no 
great alacrity shown by her host or his neighbours 
to serve the guest so strangely thrown among them, 
and it was not till a carriers cart came past the door 
on its way to the Belle Sauvage in Ludgate, that she 
was able to start on her homeward journey. So it 
happened that it was past eleven o’clock before she 
arrived in St. James’ Street. Essie got from her 
only the barest statement of what had occurred. Now 
that the anger and excitement which had supported 
her through the adventures of the night had worn off, 
she was overwhelmed with shame and with misery of 
mind and body. She lay face downwards on the bed, 
and after answering shortly the first questions, would 
make no further response even to Essie’s indignant 
denunciations of Lord Mordaunt, except to cry out that 
she wished she might never hear his name again, for 
’twas Hell to her to hear it. Essie perceiving that 
she had, though very innocently, offended her sister, 
called Ann to undress her, and herself setoff again to 
Peterborough House to inform Lord Peterborough 
and Francis of Molly’s return. She would not stay 


224 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


with Mrs. Vanhomrigh, whose questions and gay 
chatter about Moll would, she felt, even now be 
intolerable ; for though Molly was safe at home 
again, the insult and the injury that she had received, 
and the scandal most likely to result from the adven- 
ture, prevented Esther from enjoying any ease of 
mind when she thought of her. She might well have 
waited till Francis arrived, which he had promised to 
do as soon as possible, but she was glad to find her- 
self an excuse to escape from the house and was in 
a hurry to tell him what had happened. 

She walked quickly across the Park, fearing to be 
caught in the rain, for the sky was extraordinarily 
dark ; but this darkness, though partly caused by 
low heavy clouds, also arose partly from the direc- 
tion of the wind, which was slowly bringing west- 
ward a vast deal of black smoke from the chimneys 
of the City, that something in the upper strata of the 
air prevented from rising higher and dissipating itself. 
Londoners were not then used to living in the atmos- 
phere of Hades, and this deepening gloom in the 
very height of the day seemed strange, almost start- 
ling, to Esther. When she turned into the hazel coppice 
behind Peterborough House, the shadow of the foli- 
age which was thicker than usual at that season, 
made a kind of dark-green twilight all about her. 
The way was short from thence to the garden-door, 
and the path ran straight till it came to a kind of 
small clearing, such as commonly occurs in cop- 
pices. That is, it was a clearing below, where there 
were some dozen square yards of bare brown earth, 
but above it was almost roofed in by the hazels and 
the meeting boughs of two large ilex trees. Just at 
this point the path took a turn round a great strag- 
gling bush before crossing the open space. Walking 
fast and absorbed in her own thoughts, Esther was 
close to this bush before she perceived with a start 
that there was something unusual passing in the open 
space beyond it. The day was very still, and as she 
quickly and silently drew nearer and peered through 
the leaves, she could not only see but hear the 
struggle that was proceeding ; yet it was in a sense a 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


225 

silent one. There was neither word nor cry audible, 
only the loud irregular breathing of men wrestling 
hard for the mastery, the slip or stamp of heavy feet 
on the sticky earth, and the occasional sound of a 
severe blow delivered with a heavy hunting-crop. 
The victim of these blows was Francis Earle. As 
he came out of the narrow path into the open space, 
two men had leaped on him from the thicket, and 
seizing him on either side without giving him the 
least chance to pull out his sword, held him fast in 
spite of a desperate resistance. The one on his left, 
who appeared to be a groom, brought his heavy 
whip down on the head and shoulders of the young 
man as hard and as often as he could do so without 
running the risk of being tripped up, while a power- 
ful negro in a silver collar held him fast on his right. 
Passively fronting the group and leaning on his 
walking cane with his back to Esther, stood a tall 
graceful figure which she recognised at once as that 
of Mordaunt. The negro, though going through all 
the pantomime of strenuous exertion, was perhaps 
not altogether in earnest ; for Francis atone moment 
succeeded in getting his hand almost to the hilt of his 
sword. But Mordaunt stepped forward, snatched 
Francis’ rapier out of the scabbard, and with a curse 
dug the point into the negro’s leg, deep enough to 
make a clean cut in the stocking and cause the blood 
to flow down into his shoe. 

“Hold on, thou damned black dog,” he said, “till 
I bid thee leave go, or thine own back shall smart 
for’t, I warrant thee.” 

Then he threw Francis’ weapon on the ground be- 
hind him, and returned again to the passive contem- 
plation of his enemy’s chastisement and unavailing 
struggles. Esther had now pressed very close be- 
hind him through the straggling bush, though still 
sufficiently hidden by a veil of trailing foliage with 
which it was overgrown to escape notice. She had 
paused in horror and uncertainty what to do, as, owing 
to the morning hour and the threatening weather, 
Tuthill Fields were deserted, and Peterborough House 
stood so far back behind its walls and trees that she 


226 


ESTHER VA NTTOM RIG FL 


might have screamed for a longtime without attract- 
ing the attention of any one there. But when Lord Mor- 
daunt threw away Francis’ rapier, it fell at a very little 
distance from her. Quickly and cautiously Esther 
took hold of as many of the twigs and trailers before 
her as she could take at once, so as to pass through 
them as freely as possible ; yet as she sprang through 
it was with a sound of the cracking of twigs and rend- 
ing of garments. Fortunately, however, Mordaunt 
stood too close to her for this noise to warn him in 
time of her entrance on the scene. Before he could 
lift a hand to prevent her, she had snatched the fallen 
rapier from the ground, and rushing on the negro, by 
the impetus and unexpectedness of her attack caused 
him to loose his hold of Francis, into whose right 
hand she i'tnmediately thrust his sword. Then was 
there something like a reversal of fortune in the battle, 
for Francis, whose quickness of eye and hand made 
him an excellent swordsman, began to lay about him 
with such fury that the two servants very soon 
thought more of escaping unhurt than of obeying 
orders, and leaping in among the brushwood, disap- 
peared, leaving their master to fight his own battles. 
If long and successful study of the art of fencing 
could fit a man to do that, Lord Mordaunt should 
have been able to do so. He had practised it with 
real perseverance ; but when the bright steel without 
any button on it began to fly this way and that, he 
did not do more than draw and make a distant 
ineffectual thrust or two, shouting angrily to his 
servants to disarm the rascal. When the groom and 
the negro had been put to flight, Francis, infuriated, 
thirsting for revenge and heedless of the consequences, 
rushed straight upon their master with a deadly look, 
and Mordaunt felt for the first time the shock of 
swords crossed in good earnest. Then with the des- 
perate consciousness that his only hope lay in mak- 
ing a cool defence, came the power to make it. That 
assistance would come before long was more than 
probable, and meantime, pale as death, with head 
thrown back and dilated eyes, intent to follow the 
fierce, varied, lightning-quick attacks with which 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


227 


his adversary pursued him, he retreated step by step 
across the little clearing. But just as he had almost 
touched its extreme limit he gave a low but ex- 
ceeding bitter cry, his sword sprung to the ground, 
and as he threw. forward his left hand and arm to 
catch at Francis’ weapon and shield his body from 
the coming thrust, a spurt of blood crimsoned his 
lace cravatte. His cry was scarcely over when it 
was echoed by a much louder one from the lips of 
Esther. 

“Oh! don’t kill him!” she shrieked, catching 
Francis’ arm. So for a few seconds the three stood 
motionless together, Mordaunt with his bloody hand 
still clutching his opponent’s blade, and staring at 
Francis’ frowning face with the horror of death fixed 
on his own. Then quite suddenly the tension of his 
nerves and muscles relaxed, his head fell back, he 
staggered a minute and fell heavily backwards among 
the hazels. 

Esther took hold of him as though to lift him out 
of the bushes. 

“O Heavens! Do you think he is dead?” she 
asked. 

Francis wiped his brow with a handkerchief and 
dropped his sword back into his sheath. 

“Not he,” he replied, and at first he was so hoarse 
that he could scarcely speak. “ I’ve spoiled his fine 
hand for him, that’s all. Why the devil must he try 
that old trick with the left ? ” 

And he proceeded very unceremoniously to drag 
his fallen foe out by the legs and leave him lying on 
his back on the sticky earth. Esther looked in horror 
at the gashed left hand and arm. 

“’Twas a mercy you did not kill him,” she said. 

Francis made a face, with a kind of shudder. 

“’Twould have been downright murder. I have 
killed men, as soldiers must, but to kill such a coward 
wretch as that would be butcher’s work. Yet being 
so blind with anger I might not have stayed my hand 
in time, had you not caught it ; so you have my 
thanks, Hess, if not his — and thanks too, Essie, for 
your coming in the nick — you was always quick- 


228 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


witted. You couldn’t save me a beating, but you 
have helped me to my revenge for’t — and I won’t 
pretend to be so good a Christian as not to value that 
extremely.” 

“ 0 Frank, ’twas a shameful, cowardly deed ! See, 
your coat is split, and your forehead terribly marked.” 

“No matter, Hess. He'll not go boast of my 
bruises,” returned he, with a grim smile at the pros- 
trate figure before him. 

Esther, kneeling on the ground, began to raise 
Mordaunt’s head and undo his cravatte, but Francis 
pulled her up impatiently. 

“ Here’s no wound worth naming,” he said ; “ ’tis 
a pretty deep swoon he is in ; no more than that. 
Run now to Peterborough House, and bid his own 
people come to his assistance, and I will go and find 
a hackney to take us to St. James’, for I believe lam 
no figure to walk with a lady. Make haste — it begins 
to rain.” 

The black cloud overhead was lower than before, 
and as he spoke there was a tossing and whispering 
in the tree-tops, and even through the sheltering foli- 
age a heavy drop fell on his upturned face. Esther 
hurried away to the house, and he, after picking up 
and giving a knock or two to his hat, which had suf- 
fered in the encounter, walked off in the direction of 
Tuthill Fields. 

Now Lord Mordaunt lay there alone ; but not really 
alone. No sooner had Francis and Esther gone 
their several ways than the black head of Tully the 
negro appeared, raised cautiously from behind a 
bush. When he saw his master stretched out on the 
ground before him, he stole out and stared at the 
prostrate figure, and some secret fascination drew 
him nearer and nearer to it. A negro face is apt to 
seem an inexpressive thing to an unaccustomed eye, 
but as Tully looked at Lord Mordaunt the growing 
ferocity of his gaze was unmistakable. He passed 
his hand up and down his own leg, where Mordaunt 
had stabbed it. His mind was filling itself with 
vengeful memories of other blows, of countless curses 
and degrading words which had fallen to his lot 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


229 

since Mordaunt owned him. Tully had been kindly 
brought up in his West Indian home, whence he had 
been sent as a present to Peterborough’s son. His 
father had been born in the forests of Africa, and a 
generation of slavery and semi-civilisation had not 
tamed the fierce blood that he inherited from naked 
warriors whose sport was the death of their foes. 
There was a strange look of the wild beast about 
him as he crouched at Mordaunt’s side, peering in 
his face with low guttural noises and hissing whispers. 
His eyes rolled and glittered, as, showing his strong 
clenched teeth in a grin of rage and hate, he seized 
a fallen sword, which lay on the ground close to his 
hand ; it was his master’s weapon, a strong two- 
edged rapier. Laying his left hand on the young 
man’s thick, brown hair, Tully drew the sharp edge 
of the blade lightly across his bared throat. At the 
touch of the cold steel Lord Mordaunt opened his 
eyes. For an instant those eyes must have looked 
at the black face hanging over them, threatening, 
distorted with mingled passions of hate and terror 
and revenge, and at the green overshadowing boughs 
beyond it. Then Tully again drew the blade across 
his throat, this time in savage earnest. Whether the 
impulse that caused the negro to kill his master origi- 
nated most in his hate or in his terror at suddenly 
seeing Mordaunt’s eyes open, the deed was done 
before he could realise the consequences of his act. 
He remained a minute or two beside the inanimate 
or almost inanimate body, staring at it in unfeigned 
horror ; his face turned a yellowish colour and his 
knees knocked together with fear. He did not con- 
sider his chances of escaping suspicion ; flight was 
all he thought of. Throwing the blood-stained sword 
away from him, he felt with trembling fingers in his 
master’s pocket, found his purse, emptied it into his 
own pouch, then slipped in among the bushes, and 
vanished again more noiselessly and completely than 
before. Within ten minutes of the time that Francis 
and Esther had gone their several ways, Lord Mor- 
daunt was again lying alone. So quickly and silently 
had all this passed, so little altered the position of the 


230 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


body, that had there been a hidden spectator of the 
drama, he would almost have supposed it had been 
a dream ; a vision such as some monkish painter 
might have imagined, showing the foul, unlovely spirit 
that had its habitation in that beautiful form, hanging 
over it like an emanation before it vanished for ever 
from the earth and departed to its own place. 

The first person who came that way was Francis, 
who had found a hackney coach at no great distance 
and driven back in it to Tuthill Fields, where it was 
waiting. He came leisurely along the path, while 
the rain pattered on the leaves overhead, and every 
now and then a large slow drop dripped down on to 
him. When he came to the bush through which 
Esther had made her way to his assistance, he 
saw her tracks, the broken twigs and scattered 
leaves and a bit of torn sleeve-ruffle hanging on a 
brier. 

He smiled, and declared to himself that any other 
woman in the world would have done nothing under 
such circumstances except scream and faint. In 
which partial belief he erred. So looking through 
the branches, but full of his own thoughts, it was a 
minute or two before he noticed that Mordaunt was 
lying where he had left him. It cannot be said that 
the fact caused him keen anxiety, but he thought 
his swoon was lasting a long time and wondered 
no one had yet arrived from the house. When he 
came round the bush into the clearing he saw what 
had happened. 

Meantime Esther had reached Peterborough House 
and briefly told Lord Peterborough of the fight and its 
origin. For a nobleman to employ others to beat a 
man he chose to consider unworthy of his sword 
was not so unprecedented a thing that every one 
would have been equally shocked at it. Lord Peter- 
borough, however, with all his faults, was a brave 
man, and so cowardly a form of retaliation would 
never have commended itself to him. Now, when 
the victim was one to whom he was really attached, 
his indignation was extreme. But that which roused 
it most of all was that Mordaunt should swoon like a 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


231 


girl at the sight of his own blood, and in general show 
the white feather. He would not send any one else, 
but determined to come himself and let his son know 
his opinion of him, while Adriano was dressing his 
wound. And all the way as he walked beside Esther, 
followed by Adriano bearing a bandage and other 
necessaries, he was calling Heaven to witness how 
horribly undeserved a thing it was that he should 
have a chicken-hearted poltroqn for his son and for 
heir to his distinguished name. 

The path from the garden-gate ran straight to the 
clearing, so that while yet a little way off it they could 
see Francis standing by the side of the body, some- 
what turned away from them, with his head sunk on 
his breast and his arms hanging straight by his side. 
Esther called to him, and looking around with a start 
he hurried towards them, holding up his hand to 
warn them from approaching nearer. He was very 
much agitated, and this in one who so seldom be- 
trayed agitation alarmed Esther. 

“Stop, Essie,” he said, as he came up to them; 
“this is no place for you.” 

Then, turning to Peterborough : 

“My Lord, your son — your son is — is ” 

* ‘ Is dead ? ” asked Peterborough. 

Francis made an affirmative sign. 

There was a pause, and even in the shadow of the 
trees the aging face showed a yellow pallor round 
the patches of paint that Adriano had so cunningly 
put on. 

“Well,” he resumed at last, “I have lost other 
and better sons. I did not suppose the loss of this 
one would have touched me so nearly— but my race 
dies with him. Let us proceed.” 

“No, my Lord,” said Francis, laying his hand on 
Peterborough’s arm ; “do not go further, do not look 
at him — at least not yet.” 

“Pshaw, boy!” cried Peterborough impatiently, 
pushing on ; “ what stuff is this you talk to an old 
soldier that has seen more dead men than you have 
seen live ones ?” 

“I know not how he came by his death ; there has 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


232 

been foul play, but believe me I do not know,” said 
Francis very earnestly, following him. 

Lord Peterborough made no answer, for he was 
not listening. When he came near enough to see for 
himself the nature of his son’s mortal wound, he 
started visibly, and going up to the body kneeled 
down by it, though it was plain that nothing could 
be done. Then turning his head to look at Francis 
with an awful sternness, and pointing to the wound : 

“How’s this, young man?” he asked. “This 
was never done in honourable fight.” 

“Oh, my Lord,” cried Francis ; “before Heaven I 
cannot tell you. I swear to you that I gave him 
no greater hurt than that cut across the hand. I 
left him in a swoon, and returning but now, I found 
him so.” 

Esther in spite of Francis' prohibition now came 
up, followed by Adriano. The Italian, who had been 
in a nobleman’s household in his own country before 
taking service with Lord Peterborough, was used to 
seeing strange, sometimes frightful things without 
comment, and stood discreetly aside without any 
expression of emotion. Esther gave an exclamation 
of horror and clapped her hands to her eyes. Then, 
turning to Francis : 

“Oh, ’tis too horrible! In God’s name, Frank, 
how could this happen ? ” 

“ I know no more than you,” he answered, with 
the kind of impatience that comes from pain ofbody 
or mind. His eyes sought the face of Lord Peter- 
borough, who had risen to his feet and was staring 
gloomily into the bushes straight before him. 

“My Lord Peterborough,” cried Francis, “ do you 
believe me an assassin ? Before Heaven I know no 
more than the babe unborn how this unhappy man 
came by his death.” 

“I cannot tell what to think,” returned Peter- 
borough without looking at him ; “all men are liars 
—but if ’twas your hand that did it, then was it a 
foolish and ungrateful as well as a dishonourable 
deed. ” 

Francis said nothing but made a gesture of de- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


233 


spair strangely passionate for one so self-contained. 

“My Lord, my Lord,” cried Essie, wringing her 
hands, “you must believe him ; indeed he is no liar 
and never was one. And I saw with my own eyes 
how he had Lord Mordaunt at his mercy and could 
have killed him fairly. He spared him then, in hot 
blood. Can you think he would slaughter him in 
cold ? If you do not know him better than to think 
so, I do. Pray, my Lord, listen to him, for he speaks 
nothing but the truth.” 

Esther in her excitement had forgotten her horror 
of the dead man, and had actually fallen on her knees 
at Lord Peterborough’s side and taken hold of him to 
enforce her plea. He turned his head and looked at 
Francis, and his face softened. 

“I will believe you, child,” he said gravely; 
“’twouid give me too much pain to do otherwise. 
No — that deed is not yours, but have you no guess 
who is the assassin ? ” 

Francis kissed the hand that Lord Peterborough 
stretched out to him, and mournfully shook his head. 
He then repeated in greater detail the story that 
Esther had before told, of the assault on himself and 
the fight with Lord Mordaunt. When Francis had 
finished : 

“ I trust this day’s work may not cost me yet an- 
other son,” said Lord Peterborough. “But it seems 
but too likely that when the servants yonder luckless 
boy employed against you find he is dead, they will 
accuse you. Since the Duke of Hamilton’s death the 
magistrates have been waiting to make an example 
of some gentleman who has been unlucky enough to 
kill his adversary, and has not too powerful friends 
at his back. And, alas ! child, with what decency 
could I publicly protect you in this matter? — Besides, 
if it be inquired into, we cannot pass it off as a duel, 
it having happened without witnesses except this lady 
— especially the wound being as it is.” 

All this and more had passed through Francis’ mind 
in the short interval that had elapsed between his find- 
ing the body and the arrival of Peterborough and 
Esther. 


234 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH . 


“If you’ll but believe me innocent, my Lord,” he 
replied, “ I’ll bear the rest. But what had I best do ? ” 

Peterborough thought a minute. 

“ Go home with Miss Vanhomrigh ; my people will 
have no clue to your whereabouts. If it appears that 
I cannot hush the matter up, then I will so contrive 
it that you leave England this night.” 

Calling Adriano in Italian to bind up and conceal the 
dead man’s wound as much as was practicable, Peter- 
borough drew Francis away in the direction of Tut- 
hill Fields. When they got out into the fields, they 
found that the rain was finer than when it first began 
to fall, but thicker and more penetrating. It was not 
possible to see very far, and there was no one in sight 
when they reached the hackney coach. Lord Peter- 
borough himself gave the orders to the coachman, 
lest he should look at Francis too closely, and with 
a consoling observation to the effect that Adriano 
could not speak English comprehensibly and could 
hold his tongue in Italian, he sent Esther and Francis 
rolling off to St. James’ Street. 

About half-past eight o’clock in the evening Lord 
Peterborough arrived there himself, wrapped in a 
great frieze Joseph and wearing a hat and wig as 
unlike his usual ones as possible. He was carrying 
a few necessaries for Francis with his own hands, 
not choosing to be followed, to the house even by 
Adriano. He told them that of the two servants em- 
ployed to beat Francis one, a negro slave, had taken 
the opportunity to run away, and his Lordship 
thought it more prudent under the circumstances to 
bear the loss than to advertise for him, especially if 
Miss Vanhomrigh thought it probable he had recog- 
nised her. The groom had stated that he would not 
know the lady again who had so suddenly interfered 
in Francis’ favour, but was positive he would know 
the young man himself, and that there was no doubt 
’twas he had killed Lord Mordaunt, whether by acci- 
dent or by intention. A footman, who had been 
standing under the grand staircase when Mordaunt 
passed down it from Lord Peterborough’s apartments, 
although he had not heard all that Francis had then 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


235 


said to Mordaunt, had distinctly caught the words — 
“I’ll kill you if I can,” pronounced, as he affirmed, in 
a very threatening manner. Moreover, in spite of 
Adriano’s careful bandaging, it was rumoured in the 
household that Mordaunt’s death-wound was not 
such as could possibly have been given in the course 
of an honourable encounter. It was plain there had 
been foul play. Lord Peterborough was now sure 
that Francis must leave England at once and for a 
long time, if not for ever. He gave him the choice 
between sailing that night for France, where he 
might wait for the return of James III., or take ser- 
vice in a foreign army, or getting on board a ship in 
which Peterborough had a share, which was sailing 
before morning for the American Plantations. The 
captain was an old and tried adherent of Peter- 
borough’s, and his Lordship had an estate in the Amer- 
ican Colonies, or Plantations, as they were still called. 
There he believed that he could very handsomely 
provide for Francis, whom he desired to pass under 
the name of Mordaunt, and himself reap some bene- 
fit from his presence there. Yet Lord Peterborough 
was very loth to part with him. The young man 
had but a few minutes in which to decide his future, 
and somewhat to his Lordship’s surprise he chose 
America. For though he was a soldier he was some- 
thing else besides, and if he could not serve in the 
English army he would not serve in another. Per- 
haps a soldier’s life had not proved so satisfactory as 
he had expected, perhaps he had seen something 
of adventurers serving in foreign armies, and after 
his critical manner thought meanly both of them 
and of their career*. As to James III., though his loy- 
alty and gratitude to Lord Peterborough made him 
willing, as he would have said, to act as special 
messenger to the devil for that nobleman, if so de- 
sired, he would have been sorry and surprised to see 
the return of the injured Monarch. He had been 
used to keep the festival of the Battle of the Boyne 
as a schoolboy, and even if he had been disposed 
to turn Jacobite afterwards, his late visit to St. Ger- 
mains would have sent him back to the principles of 


236 ESTHER VA NIIO M RIG II. 

his youth. But it must be admitted that before de- 
ciding, he had asked his Lordship if there was not 
sometimes soldiering to be done out in the Planta- 
tions, and hearing that the Indians and the French 
were often very troublesome, made up his mind 
to go there. ; yet without any eagerness, for he was 
greatly depressed both at the part he had innocently 
taken in the death of Lord Peterborough's heir, and 
at his own sudden and indefinite banishment from 
England. He would gladly have stayed awhile, not 
merely for his own sake, but because he perceived 
from what Essie told him that the Vanhomrigh ladies 
were socially and pecuniarily in straits, and that if 
he could not materially help them, his presence 
would be a comfort and relief to them, especially to 
her. She had tried to dissuade him from seeing Mrs. 
Vanhomrigh, declaring that her mother was not well 
enough to hear the story of his encounter with Mor- 
daunt or its cause, and could not safely be trusted 
with a secret. But he insisted upon it that he could 
not be in Cousin Vanhomrigh’s house without seeing 
her, and made her promise with some pride to main- 
tain secrecy on the subject of his visit, because he 
was in town on a political mission. It perhaps 
somewhat reconciled him to leaving England to 
learn that Swift was there, and frequenting the fam- 
ily as usual, though in the country for the - moment. 
Mrs. Vanhomrigh knew fifty good reasons why the 
Dean had so long postponed formally proposing for 
the hand of Esther, and could almost fix the exact 
date when he would do so. Francis, who had heard 
all this of old, put no particular faith in it, but he knew 
that if things were still in the same position as 
before, he would have to content himself with taking 
a subordinate place in Esthers regard, and suffer 
again the old repressed hatred of the Doctor — a 
hatred which was partly jealousy and partly a natural 
aversion which he would have felt under any cir- 
cumstances. He had found it distinctly pleasanter 
to be far away, and too fully interested and occupied 
to be very sensible of his own loves and hates. Yet 
for a little while he might have been happy with 


ESTHER VANIIOMRIGH. 


2 37 

them, his oldest, almost his only friends in the world, 
and serviceable to them, had it not been for his mis- 
adventure of that morning. 

The three, Peterborough, Esther and Francis, were 
mostly silent as they walked along the deserted drip- 
ping Mall in the dusk of the summer evening in the 
direction of Westminster stairs. At the top of the 
stairs was a bench where a number of watermen sat, 
some dozing, some smoking and some playing cards 
by the light of a lantern ; villainous-looking men, 
mostly wearing loose blouses, the skirts of which 
hung down beneath their waistcoats, no coats, and 
caps on their unkempt locks. A fare on such an 
evening was a strange and welcome sight, and there 
was a commotion among them, some dozen men 
jumping up at once and shouting, “Oars, sir?” — 
“Sculls, your honour?” — “Sculls or oars, gentle- 
men ? ” Peterborough bespoke a couple of oars, and 
while a dirty-looking and foul-mouthed waterman was 
hailing his boat and the comrade who shared it with 
him, Francis and Esther stood together on the bank. 

“It is very hard to lose you thus, Francis,” said 
she. “ It was a wonderful comfort to me to see you 
this morning.” 

He sighed, and made no answer. 

“All this will pass over; Lord Peterborough is set 
on hushing it up. Meanwhile, you must write us 
how you do. I do not love to think you are going 
to so savage a country.” 

“ I shall return,” he replied ; “I will return. You 
have but to send for me when I can be of service, 
and I will certainly come. Mordaunt will soon be 
forgotten and I yet sooner.” 

“I trust it may be so,” she said. “In any case, 
dear generous cousin, we shall not forget you — nor 
cease to be sorry that you suffer through us, for it is 
through us.” 

“ No, Hess ; do not continue to say that,” he cried 
impatiently. “Tis a mere cursed trick of the jade 
Fortune. I care not — I will be even with her some- 
how, and you shall see me return. — That is, if you 
wish to see me.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


238 

“Come, child, ” Peterborough called out; “the 
oars are ready. Make your adieux as tenderly as you 
will, but briefly. I’ll not count the kisses.” 

“ My service to Cousin Vanhomrigh and Moll, and 
I trust they will soon be in health/’ said Francis, and 
raised Esther’s hand to his lips. She kissed him 
hastily on the forehead, both gentlemen paused and 
made their bows to her at the top of the stairs, then 
by the flickering light of the boatman’s lantern she 
saw Peterborough push Francis into the boat before 
him, throw money to a man who was holding the 
boat up to the landing-place with a hook, and sign 
to him to let go. In less than a minute the dark 
boat disappeared in the darker shadow of the bridge, 
its lantern gleamed there for a moment, and was 
gone. Old Ann had followed the party at a little 
distance, and now joined Esther, who went home to 
St. James’ Street as quickly as she could, oppressed 
with a sense of desertion and very melancholy. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

June and July went by, and still Swift was in Berk- 
shire. Not far from Wantage a bosky cluster of eim- 
trees fills up a fold of the downs. Passing along the 
ancient grassy road, called the Ridge Way, you look 
down on it, and see a church tower and perhaps a red 
gable or two, and a wreath of blue smoke rising above 
the heavy summer foliage, sole sign of the village 
ofLetcombe Bassett. In this quiet spot, that hears 
scarcely any sound except the noise of water and the 
rushing of the great down winds in the tree-tops, here 
in the house of a silent eccentric parson of small 
means, he boarded himself out, and let the busy world 
go its way. It was not in any spirit of cheerful phi- 
losophy that he thus threw aside the tangled skein 
of his affairs public and private, nor did he consciously 
go to Nature for consolation. But she, although she 
could not give him cheerfulness, did unasked deliver 
him from the storms of bitter anger, the thousand 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


239 

agitations, the “fever of the soul” that mined his 
being in London and in Dublin, and bestow upon him 
a certain calm, as it were the calm of a lowering 
autumn day. The long internecine struggle between 
his friends Bolingbroke and the Lord Treasurer, had 
ended in the overthrow of the latter ; and Swift, who 
had been maddened by his obstinacy and stupidity 
in the days of his prosperity, stood by him with loyal 
affection in his disgrace. Now Queen Anne was dead, 
his own hopes of advancement dead with her, and 
his friends, as it was rumoured, likely to be accused 
of high treason. He hardly knew why he lingered ; 
perhaps partly because he shrank from returning to 
Dublin, partly because he loved, however uselessly, 
to stand by his friends when they were in trouble. 
Even had he known how far Bolingbroke and Peter- 
borough and Atterbury had gone in those intrigues 
with St. Germains which had so little of his sympathy, 
he could not have borne to forsake them. His own 
political career was over, and with it he thought all 
that was worth calling his life. 

“ Few and evil have been my days,” he murmured 
to himself, and bowed his head on his breast, as he 
came along the Ridge Way, returning from one of 
those long rides which were at once a diversion to 
him and a cure for his bodily ailments. Five-and- 
thirty years of servitude had been his, forty of com- 
parative obscurity, some three or four of power and 
fame and strenuous life, when like a swimmer borne 
shore wards on the summit of a wave, he had rejoiced 
in his strength and made sure of reaching his goal ; 
but the wave was spent, and again he was engulfed 
in the trough of the sea, this time as it seemed never 
to re-emerge. Nor was his ambition or his disap- 
pointment all of a petty or personal kind. Faults he 
had as a politician and as a man ; he was imperious 
and prejudiced in a generation in which his freedom 
from many prejudices was more remarkable than his 
slavery to some. But he had strong sense, a far-see- 
ing mind, and above all a public spirit, a love of jus- 
tice, an inflexible uprightness, almost unique in the 
petty venal herd which was soon to be priced and 


240 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


bought by Walpole. He was fitted to serve his coun- 
try, he had overcome as no man before him had over- 
come the difficulties of poverty and want of powerful 
connections, and had sat as an equal at the Councils of 
Ministers, by that equality doing more to affirm the 
dignity of the Church than any Bishop in the House of 
Lords. A turn of the wheel, and not only was his every 
achievement rendered null and void, but the party 
on whom he fondly imagined the prosperity of 
England to depend was not so much deprived of 
power as annihilated. Over these public misfortunes, 
over the misfortunes and difficulties of his private 
life, he brooded ceaselessly, sitting with a book be- 
fore him in the little wainscoted parlour at Letcombe 
Bassett or roaming through the lanes and fields. It 
was his folly, his weakness, his inevitable curse, to be 
unable to refrain his thoughts from wandering again 
and again in the same well-trodden weary unprofitable 
ways. The oftener they returned thither, the greater, 
the more intolerable appeared the wrongs he had 
suffered from Nature, from Fortune, from his fellow- 
men. Nothing but hard galloping on horseback 
seemed able to shake the brooding demon from his 
soul, and that but for a little. Happily his friend 
Mr. Harley had made him a present of a powerful 
horse, that carried his weight easily. Often in the 
gathering dusk or when the wild gusts of rain were 
driving over the open downs, the lonely shepherd 
standing in the doorway of his wheeled hut, would 
be startled by the quick, heavy thud of hoofs coming 
along the Ridge Way, and see a great iron-grey horse 
pass by at a gallop, sometimes with every sinew 
stretched to the utmost, foam flying from the bit and 
blood on the rider’s spur. At other times, when the 
hour was earlier and the day fairer, the grim-looking 
rider would draw rein and exchange some simple talk 
with the shepherd about the weather and his flock ; 
on which subject, in spite of, or perhaps in conse- 
quence of, his deferentially proffered questions and 
opinions, the shepherd pronounced him to be a very 
knowing gentleman, though he could not go so far as 
to altogether contradict the Letcombe folk, who held 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


241 


the poor gentleman to be weak in his intellects, and 
for this reason placed by his friends under the care of 
Parson Gery. Swift was no enthusiast for Nature ; a 
well-planted orchard and a trim willow-walk gave 
him more definite pleasure than the wide prospect 
from the Ridge Way, which probably affected him 
little more than it had done the Roman legionaries 
that had passed along it before him. Yet he climbed 
the steep way thither again and again out of love for 
the light fresh airs that stream across the downs, the 
feel and the scent of their fine springy turf, and the 
freedom of the long galloping ground, rolling itself 
out interminably before him under the immensity of 
the sky. 

One day early in August, the weather being fine 
but not hot, for there was a light breeze blowing and 
fleecy clouds drifting across the sky, he started for 
his ride earlier than usual, and about four o’clock in 
the afternoon dismounted from his heated horse in 
the stable yard of the parsonage. 

“ Rub him down well, boy,” he said to the lad who 
took charge of him. “ Look ye now, boy, as long as 
I am over you, never call a horse dry till you have 
rubbed yourself into a sweat over him, nor oblige him 
with the water pail till he is too cool to be anxious 
for ’t. How you may treat your next master’s cattle 
is none of my concern, but be sure you’ll never see 
the colour of my money, beyond what the law obliges, 
unless you use my beast handsomely. Methinks the 
oats were lower in the sack this morning than they 
should have been. Look to that now as you love 
my money ! ” 

The lad, who heard pretty much this discourse 
every day and never knew whether to grin or to be 
sulky at it, to-day resented the innuendo about the 
oats. 

“Lor’ bless your honour, how ’a do talk, and yer 
honour main simple about beasts and vittles and the 
loike ! I tell ’ee this ’ere harse do eat a power of 
wuts, that ’a do, and small shame to ’un, poor beast, 
says I.” 

“Well, well, I’ll pass it this once ; but never think 
16 


242 


ESTHER VANHOMRIG/I. 


to deceive me, boy, or you’ll find it’s yourself that’s 
mightily deceived. I shall find you out, faith, I 
shall. ” 

And somewhat stimulated and cheered by his ride 
and his little encounter with the stable-boy, he walked 
into the house and opened the door of the small 
wainscoted parlour which was dedicated to his own 
use. It had a low casement window, on which the 
oblique rays of the afternoon sun were just beginning 
to strike, making a certain dimness and dazzle in the 
room. Through this he distinguished, to his amaze- 
ment, the figure of a lady in very deep mourning, 
seated with her back to the light. He paused a mo- 
ment on the threshold, inwardly cursing the stupidity 
of the maid-servant, who must have shown some 
visitor of his host’s into his sanctum. But the idea 
had scarcely time to occur to him before the lady 
sprang to her feet and threw back her veil. 

“ Hess 1 ” he cried in incredulity mingled with some- 
thiilg like horror. “Good God ! Can it be you ? ” 

The trembling anxiety with which she had watched 
him enter the house grew to trembling fear. 

“Don’t be angry with me,” she pleaded, “ I could 
not help it. ’Twas too tantalising to pass through 
Wantage and not see you. Didn’t you want to see 
me, Cadenus?” 

“Yes — No, I mean. Why could you not send for 
me if you must be coming to Wantage ? ” 

“I had no time, dear sir,” she answered. 

“•Why the devil should you come by Wantage?” 
he continued. “Whither are you posting that you 
come this road rather than by Oxford ? ” 

“To Witney, sir; and besides, sir,” she went on, 
still anxiously excusing herself, “I had a desire to 
thank you for your kindness in the matter of the 
money. I dare assure you your signing the bond 
shall be but a form, yet it helped me mightily with 
Barber, who without it would I believe have looked 
very shyly on the loan.” 

“Oh, I hate to be thanked, miss, more especially 
for nothing ! Pray, where is your discretion ? You 
used to boast that you had abundance. You showed 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


24 3 


none in coming hither to set Mrs. Gery tattling.” 

The passionate annoyance that betrayed itself in 
his tone, and in the working of his heavy eyebrows, 
seemed far greater that the occasion warranted. If 
he had said his whole mind he would have cried : 

‘ * I want to forget you ; I was succeeding in a meas- 
ure, and here you come and undo my work. I do 
not know if I love you, but I do know that I hate the 
tangle you have made in my life.” 

If she had known the truth, Esther might not have 
felt so much surprise and indignation at her reception 
as now overcame her fear, causing her to flash one 
look upon him, and then throwing her , heavy veil 
once more over her face, walk out of the room and the 
house without a single word, or so much as seeing 
Mrs. Gery on the stairs in her best gown and cap. 
Mrs. Gery, who having but few incidents in her life 
was obliged to make the most of those that came in 
her way, had already held a little consultation with 
the servant on the subject of this mysterious lady, 
evidently young and fine in spite of her veil and her 
mourning, who had come to see the Dean and had 
excused herself from taking a dish of tea in the best 
parlour. Her rapid disappearance was disappointing, 
but increased the mystery of her appearance, and 
Mrs. Gery so plied the Dean with her questions and 
officious offers of entertainment, that it was some 
minutes before he could sneak out of the house and 
down the road after Esther. He followed her at a 
little distance, not wishing her to return to the par- 
sonage. As she went down the steep hollow lane 
overarched by trees, she thought she heard the well- 
known footstep behind her, but would not turn. 
When she came to the bridge over the long pool 
formed by the millstreams, she paused a moment and 
leaned on the parapet, as though to look at a water- 
lily that was still in bloom, floating over its own 
reflection in the dark still water, and then she caught 
a glimpse of Swift following her ; but still she con- 
tinued to walk on up the Letcombe Regis road. 
Swift came up with her and laid his hand on her 
shoulder. 


244 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“I ask your pardon, Governor Huff. I meant not 
to be unkind. I was vexed more for your sake than 
my own.” 

“I care not for your reasons, ’ returned she, with- 
out looking at him. “ Who’d think of ’em in the mo- 
ment of a joyful surprise ? No— I was used to have a 
friend, but now it seems I have only a benefactor. 

“Governor Huff will always be chiding because 
Cadenus is a sober old Doctor that can t forget his 
reasons. Yet sure that makes him the better friend 
for a young woman, that is sometimes — O, only 
sometimes, I allow ! — no wiser than others of her sex 
and age.” 

“A feeling friend would out of mere compassion 
have given me a kinder welcome, seeing the many 
uneasinesses I have to suffer. You do not know all, 
yet enough to have affected you with pity, had you 
been capable of it. My poor mamma dying while 
Moll was yet between life and death, a confusion in 
our affairs such as ’twould take a better lawyer than 
I to unravel, such a wretch of a brother as you cannot 
imagine, and the fear every day to fall alone, two 
unprotected young women, into the hands of the 
bailiffs. ’Twas for this reason we fled from London 
on Sunday, though Moll is most unfit to travel, and 
mean to lodge with a cousin at Witney till we get 
some money from my Irish estate. I cannot tell how 
far I am liable for these debts. Oh, Cadenus, you 
are indeed heartless to add your displeasure, your 
most undeserved displeasure, to all my other afflic- 
tions ! ” 

“ Poor Bratikin ! ” he said. “ How canst thou say 
I did not pity thee, when I did from my soul, and 
helped thee so far as in me lay ? ” 

“Yes, I was mad and most ungrateful to say so,” 
she returned, sighing and throwing back her veil once 
more, as she pressed her hand to her forehead. 
“Well, ’tis a wonder I am not in Bedlam by this. 
You do pity me, that’s certain ; but ’tis not just that I 
want of you. I want you to feel with me, Cadenus, 
you that know better than any man alive how to feel 
with your friends in their misfortunes. But I am 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


245 


very exacting- to expect it, when indeed you do not 
know half mine, for I was afraid to commit them to 
the post, for fear all your letters should be read. ” 

“ I am truly grieved for ’em before knowing ’em, 
little Hess. Could you not go to Lewis for counsel ? ” 
“No, sir, not very conveniently. He had some 
disagreement with my dear mamma, which I do not 
well understand, but she was mightily huffed with 
him, for her, who was, as you must be sensible, the 
best-natured creature that ever breathed. He knew 
so much of our affairs, too, that I feared he might 
require to know more, and ’tis the worst of our troubles 
that some of ’em might be termed disgraces.” 

Swift’s eager sympathies, his friendship and regret 
for poor “neighbour Van,” and the true affection for 
Esther herself that underlay those other conflicting 
feelings of his towards her — all combined to break 
down the barrier between them which he had men- 
tally erected. There was not a soul to be met on the 
pleasant country road, which ran on accompanied for 
a time by a babbling stream and broadened by irre- 
gular stretches of turf, shaded by great trees. As 
they walked on, Esther told him bit by bit, with many 
comments from both sides, the family history of the 
last two months. He had forbidden any of his friends 
to send him a newspaper, but he had heard of the mys- 
terious death of Lord Peterborough’s son, as to whom 
it was currently reported that he had been killed in a 
duel under circumstances in some way discreditable 
to him. This accounted for the fact that though Lord 
Peterborough could not prevent an inquest being held 
upon him, and a verdict of murder being returned 
against his adversary, he had yet taken no steps to 
procure evidence or to pursue the murderer, who had 
somehow immediately disappeared ; for which neglect 
his Lordship was much blamed in certain quarters. 
This was all that had reached Swift of what had been 
for a week the talk of the town, and Esther was 
thankful to find it was so, for it showed there were 
some persons at least who could mention Mordaunt 
without mentioning Mrs. Mary Vanhomrigh. She 
had fancied, as people do fancy who either gossip or 


246 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

are gossiped about, that ‘ * every one ” was talking of 
the story in which she herself was interested. 

So in familiar talk that gradually obliterated the 
traces of their .stormy meeting, and of the last two 
months of separation, they walked on through Let- 
combe Regis and took the field way to Wantage. In 
the wide corn-land through which it first passes, the 
blue-stockinged reapers were cutting the corn and the 
women were binding it in sheaves. The afternoon 
sunshine lay on the plain with its golden wealth of 
harvest, its clusters and lines of heavy foliaged elms, 
and its red-roofed homesteads ; but fleecy clouds were 
still piled up on the horizon, and shadows were 
moving in silent procession along the line of the 
downs. Swift exchanged greetings with the country 
folk, who all with bob-curtsey or uplifted hat did that 
reverence to “the quality ” which they considered less 
a matter of courtesy than as a duty enjoined upon 
them at their baptism. 

When they had reached a pleasant meadow, across 
which a chalk-stream from the downs ran sparkling 
and clear : 

“Let us sit here awhile,” said Swift ; “I know you 
love to be romantic, and here’s a purling stream and 
yonder are willows enough. If I was you, when I 
had rested a bit, I would choose a handsome tree, 
take out my pocket-knife, and carve in the bark of it 
an ‘F.’ and an ‘E.,’ twined round with a hempen 
rope tied in a true lovers’ knot.” 

Esther, awaking from a reverie, stared at him. 

“What’s this you’re talking of?” she asked. 

“Why, Silly, if you’re not in love with this cousin 
of yours, this slashing swain, this Mordantino, 'tis 
mighty ungrateful of you.” 

“I am above answering your banter,” returned 
Esther, tossing her chin and blushing deeply. 

“I hope he is really indifferent to you, Hesskin,” 
he continued, “for ’tis very unlikely you’ll ever set 
eyes on him again. Yet ’tis certain he behaved very 
handsomely — though, when I come to think of it, 
’twas for his own skin he was fighting, not yours, and 
he would without doubt have been forced to take his 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


24 7 


beating had you not intervened. Well, well ! These 
are the scurvy tricks that noble lords love to play us 
commonality, and I wonder not if on thinking the 
matter over your Mordantino repented him of his 
generosity and could not forbear letting out the vil- 
lain’s life.” 

“ For shame, Cadenus ! ” cried Esther. “You never 
loved poor Frank, but this passes everything. He is 
incapable of such a deed; and besides he strongly 
denied it, and I would stake my life upon his 
word. ” 

“Peace, peace be with us, Missessy. I ask you a 
thousand pardons. I said it of purpose to provoke 
you — and must confess that when I hear how hotly 
you defend your spark, I am no longer surprised that 
Molly was of the opinion you was in love with him. 
Faith, she may be more right than either of us, for 
she’s a wise girl in other folk’s concerns, is poor Moll. 
They say, you know, that little misses can’t read their 
own hearts.” 

There fell an ominous silence ; Esther was pulling 
up blades of grass by the root and tearing them to 
shreds. 

“Cruel! Hateful!” she cried, in a low voice. “O, 
that I had never read mine, or let you read it ! Yet, 
I must have died else. Died ! If any one else could 
see into my heart, they’d wonder that I live, for you 
alone make my life insupportable, without consider- 
ing the thousand other uneasinesses I must suffer. 
Why should I sit struggling with misfortunes, when 
not all the wealth of the Indies can promise me satis- 
faction ? Why do I live ? I know not, indeed I know 
not. Sometimes I am resolved to die.” 

“Hush, hush, Essie!” said Swift, not without 
agitation. “ These are very wild words, and I could 
better excuse them in Moll, whose misfortunes have 
been much greater than yours. ” 

“Poor Molly ! ” returned Esther, gloomily. “ ’Tis 
partly for her sake I continue to live. Yet I am not 
so good a Christian as to find satisfaction in living 
only for another. I know not how long I shall be 
able to endure it. Her misfortunes are part of my 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


248 

own ; but I deny them to be greater than my private 
griefs. ” 

‘ ‘ Tis human nature to do that, Essie. There are 
few things we are so unwilling to admit about others 
as that their luck has been worse than our own. Yet 
you cannot pretend to have lost at one blow the better 
half both of your fortune and your reputation, to say 
nothing of a lover who has come to a miserable end, 
though not more miserable than he deserved. You 
have your health. These troubles consequent upon 
poor Madam Van's death will pass over with a little 
management, and you will find yourself the mistress 
of a good fortune. Believe me, however the romantic 
may talk, health and wealth form two large parts of 
happiness, and sincere friendship the rest. As for 
these other fancies you will still be maundering about, 
no reasonable being can for an instant regard them. " 

‘ ‘ I am sick of your Reason and your Reasonable 
Beings, " said she. ‘ ‘ Pray, what does it all mean ? 
Were I confined by some spell to this meadow and 
forbidden to get food from elsewhere, I should protest 
I starved, and doubtless the sheep would find me 
mighty ridiculous. Yes, yonder grave old ram would 
be positive I could not starve among all this good 
rich grass. You judge me after his manner, Cadenus, 
when you declare I have everything to make me 
happy." 

“Happy?" repeated Swift, with a sombre look. 
“Who is happy? Happiness is a word the devil 
learned in Paradise to mock us with, lest we should 
find content. I do not say you are happy, foolish 
child, but I say you have much less reason to be un- 
happy than Moll ; and I also say that you have not 
half her philosophy, who appears to have cured her- 
self at once of her infatuation for her spark, when 'twas 
clear it could cause her nothing but uneasiness." 

“ Moll again ! You can compare a thing so paltry 
as her flame for that poor wretch to the inexpressible 
love I bear— O Heavens ! Why was I born with such 
feelings as sure no other creature in this dull age is 
cursed with, and all, all to be squandered on a block 
— a stone ! Twould have been too much to hope 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


249 

that I should find a being whose heart was as capable 
of love as my own, yet I need not have chanced on 
one that knows not the very alphabet of it, and will 
not and cannot learn. O, I see well enough ’tis 
Hebrew, ’tis Chinese to you — no need to tell me you 
have never loved, for could you give the least guess 
at what you make me suffer, you’d be a monster to 
inflict it.” 

Swift was seated on a knoll of grass, and his hands 
clasped across his raised knees were twisting and 
playing with his cane. As Esther spoke the blood 
ebbed from his face, leaving it ashy pale, and when 
she ended he did not raise his eyes from the point of 
the cane, which he kept digging into the ground. 
At length he spoke, but still without looking up. 

“ D’ye think I don’t know what it means to suffer, 
Hess ? ” 

“Not as I do, Cadenus.” 

He dropped his forehead on his clasped hands and 
began a laugh which broke and turned to a long low 
moaning exclamation. Esther hearing it was seized 
with terror and remorse. She took him by the arm. 

“Oh, sir, pray don’t! Cadenus — dearest, I beg 
and pray your forgiveness a thousand million times. 

0 Heavens, that I should cause you the least uneas- 
iness ! Wretch that I am, unworthy of your friend- 
ship, how indeed should you love me ? ’Tis madness 
to dream it. Forgive me this once, and I’ll try to be 
content, indeed I’ll try not to complain. — Cadenus ! ” 

Swift raised himself from his bowed posture. 

“ Let us be calm,” he said ; “both of us if we can. 

1 forgive you, unhappy child, and hope you’ll forgive 

me as freely. Very likely you think you have more 
to forgive, yet if you knew all, you’d see ’tis not so. 
We are both the victims of Fate, and ’tis of no avail 
to struggle. But there’s one particular, Hess, of 
which, seeing your esteem and friendship for me, I 
warn you, and ’tis this. My constitution — ’tis a secret, 
remember — is unsound. One of these days your up- 
braidings, if you continue them, will undoubtedly 
drive me out of I mean, bring me to my end.” 

He spoke so solemnly that the warning could not 


250 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


be regarded as a mere attempt to frighten his friend 
into self-restraint. Esther shuddered and looked at 
him with wide eyes. 

* * Is it possible, sir, you have any malady that 
endangers your life ? This is horrible. ” 

“ Horrible ! ” cried Swift, with energy. “ ’Tis hell- 
ish ! ” and he gripped her shoulder. ‘ ‘ Look, Missessy, 
can you keep a secret? Yes, though a woman, I 
believe you can. You have told me your secret, I'll 
pay you in your own money and tell you mine — one 
I never whispered before to any living creature.” 

He hesitated ; then pointing to a great isolated elm, 
the topmost branches of which stood out lightning- 
seared and naked above its lower greenery : 

“Look at that tree. ’Tis what I shall be, what I’m 
fast becoming — dead at the top. Think, Hess, — 
alive, but dead at the top. ” And he touched his fore- 
head significantly. “There's some woman in a play 
— trust you to know all about it — raves like the very 
devil because she must be shut up in a vault with the 
bones of her ancestors. What’s that to knowing 
yourself condemned to drag your own bones, your 
own hideous, rotten, contemptible corpse, about the 
world to be a mock, a scorn, a horror, alike to your 
friends and to your enemies ? And that’s the fate I see 
before me, have seen before me for years, but always 
getting nearer, till I seem to touch it, to feel it— 
Hush ! Don’t let’s talk of that any more, it’s too 
frightful and shocking to speak of— and yet ’twill 
be.” 

Esther locked her hands tightly together, but other- 
wise she was calm. 

“Dear Cadenus,” she said earnestly, “I am very 
glad you told me of it. ’Tis most horrible, a night- 
mare fancy ; but there’s no truth in it. Such false 
terrors will appear to us in the solitude of our own 
thoughts, as horrid shapes appear to children in the 
dark — but there’s no substance in ’em. That you of 
all men living should fear to lose your powers of mind 
is indeed singular. My opinion of the matter is scarce 
worth your taking, but I beg of you to confide in Mr. 
rope or Dr. Arbuthnot or some other whose judgment 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


251 

you value. I am confident they would tell you that 
for the greatest genius, the brightest wit that has 
adorned this age, to torment himself with the fear 
that his intellects are failing him, is the most prepos- 
terous fancy that ever was engendered by the spleen.” 

“Ay, Hesskin, ay, that they would,” he answered, 
nodding his head gloomily ; “so well have I kept my 
counsel. But look you, Missessy,” and again he 
gripped her shoulder and positively shook her, ‘ ‘ now 
I’ve told you my secret, I'll not have you treat it as 
the megrims of a sick girl, d'ye hear ? Do you believe 
me such a fool as to plague and martyr myself, to 
refrain from pretty near everything that’s sweet in 
life, and for years and years, the best part of a life- 
time, to continue like that, and all for the sake of a 
fancy ? By Heavens, then, you shall hear the whole 
truth, you shall see to the bottom of the matter, since 
your damned female curiosity drives you to it ! Yes, 
I fear I shall end a madman. — Why ? — Why ? Because 
I am a madman already.” 

His hand dropped from Esther’s shoulder on to the 
grass. The throbbing of her pulses visibly stirred 
the heavy crape kerchief that covered her throat and 
bosom ; she did not look at him at once, but bit her 
under-lip and knit her brow as she stared at the grass, 
and Swift, who usually sharply rebuked this and any 
other facial trick, took no notice of it. Then regard- 
ing him steadily and severely : 

“I suppose, sir,” she said, “you’ll be angry if I 
tell you you certainly talk like one. Compose your- 
self, I beg, and tell me what just cause you have for 
thinking yourself — you that’s reason personified — to 
have lost your reason.” 

Swift’s gaze fell before hers ; the set muscles of his 
frowning face relaxed, he seemed to calm himself by 
a mighty effort, and when he spoke again it was in 
his usual tone. 

“ ‘ Except I thrust my hand into the wounds ’ — Eh ? 
O Didymus, Didymus ! — I will then describe to you 
the cause and effect of my malady, as exactly as 
though you were a physician much wiser than any 
that ever yet was calved. For look you — but don’t 


ESTHER VANIIOMRIGH. 


252 

tell it to my good Arbuthnot, Hess — with their Galen 
and their Pharmacopoeia, and their palatial wigs, 
these poor fellows smother up the little light of reason 
that Nature gave ’em. A bumpkin squire that asks 
the pedigree of a horse or hound before he buys it 
hath a better empiric judgment of things than they. 
I’ve fooled the doctor and myself so long with that 
tale of the surfeit of fruit 1 ate when I was young, 
and how since then I have been subject to this vomit- 
ing and giddiness in the head, that I hardly know 
what is the truth of the matter. But this I know, — 
my father’s brother in Dublin, him that used me so ill 
when I was a lad, was subject to this same affection, 
and he was drivelling, raving mad for years before 
he died. Ay, ay, haven’t I seen the crazy old villain 
scrambling about his fine house, and beating the fur- 
niture for rage ? And I used to laugh at the poor old 
wretch, Hess. Besides, my mother’s family was said 
to have this curse on it ; that one in every generation 
must drop down dead or lose his senses. Well, well ! 
This kind of estate will not keep itself in the male 
line. My mother’s brother killed in a fit of madness 
a wife he valued more than most men value theirs. 
Consider, Hess — to pass through a hell like that, and 
when you’d struggled back into the world, and lay 
there all faint and torn by the devils that had left you, 
and when you missed the woman that should have 
been watching at your bedside — think of it, Hess.” 

“Most sad and terrible, sir, yet not your case. 
And to consider the matter so nearly and your own 
chances of being in such a case, is to invite the mad- 
ness which you fear — and of which up to this pres- 
ent, you show not the least threatening sign, but 
very much the contrary. ” 

“Ah, Hess, there’s where you err.” And he low- 
ered his voice. “You know I never see any creature 
but Patrick when my head’s bad. This is why I keep 
Patrick, though he’s the greatest slut that wears 
breeches. He’s very stupid and very good-natured, 
and he’ll not observe or resent anything I may do ; 
and moreover should be talk on’t, he’s so notorious a 
liar that even his fellow-footmen won’t trouble to 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


253 

report what he tells ’em. But the truth is I am 
always strangely dull and cross after these bouts 
with my head, and sometimes, Missessy, sometimes 
— well, the words won’t come. I know well enough 
what I want, but I can’t find ’em, or I find ’em 
wrong. And if any one asks me the least question, 
as, Where is my watch ? or, What is the name of my 
doctor ? ’tis not merely that I cannot answer him, 
but I could kill him for anger at being asked. Yes, 
the least trifling word or touch may prove sufficient 
to transport me with rage, and though I thank the 
Almighty I have never yet lost control over my 
words or actions, He only knows when and what 
the end of the matter may be.” 

‘ ‘ Dear sir, she said, ” rather tremulously, and placing 
her hand on his, which lay on the grass, “He cer- 
tainly sent you a mercy in disguise when he removed 
you from public affairs.” 

“No, Hess ! ” cried Swift with animation. ‘ ‘ There’s 
nothing invigorates the mind like affairs of state. My 
cursed luck has lain in this, that I have had to act 
with men that had neither common-sense nor resolu- 
tion. And yet you are right, for who can deal with 
public affairs except through public men ? And are 
not these altogether vanity ? ” He sighed dejectedly 
and said after a pause: “You’ll despise me now, 
Missessy, you’ll sneer when I talk of reason.” 

Esther half rose, and it happened that in doing so 
she kneeled. 

“ I ? I, Cadenus ? ” she asked with clasped hands : 

‘ ‘ Dear, honoured — ” and she raised to him the dewy 
brightness of her eyes and the smile of her mouth, 
pathetic, triumphant. 

Swift looked at her kneeling so before him with a 
deep melancholy, through which an underlying ten- 
derness was more perceptible than he guessed. His 
character was essentially secretive, and everything 
in his life had tended to strengthen its natural bent. 
Doubtless there would be subsequent moments when 
he would bitterly regret having entrusted his secret 
to any one, but just at this moment he felt only a 
sense of absolute rest, of relief from a long strain, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


254 

Humiliation there was none in having confessed his 
weakness to one whose devotion to him was inalter- 
able, but on the contrary some indirect gratification 
to his self-esteem. For it is only the dull who think 
it more flattering to be loved for what they are fancied 
to be than for what they really are. The charm, the 
fascination of that great love which had so strangely 
invaded his life, came over him more strongly than 
ever before, and more definitely than ever before, he 
paused to listen to the voice of the enchantress Might- 
have-been, whose habitation is not far from that of 
Giant Despair. 

“ Essie/' he said, “ do not think me insensible to 
your — your great affection. Oh, what a brute beast 
should I be, were it so ! There are moments when I 
would give much to be young again, and able to for- 
get reason and duty. They are hard masters, Hesskin, 
that give us nothing for our service but the need to 
serve 'em. Had I met such a one as you twenty 
years since — well, I might have been madder and 
more miserable and happier too, and pleaded my 
youth as an excuse for the wretchedness I had caused 
to myself and others. But now — though I should 
curse the hour that ever I laid on my neck the yoke 
of this Reason and this Duty, — which yet I am bold 
to say are of a nobler sort than your common church- 
mouse wots of — now I could not be free of it, I could 
not endure to kick against the pricks." 

Esther, who was seated lower on the bank than 
himself, was now resting her elbows on the grass and 
leaning her head on her clasped hands in such a way 
that he could not see her face ; only a black veil and 
an aureole of hair, golden in the sun. 

“Cadenus," she said in a low submissive voice, 
“ tell me — I only wish to understand. Why did rea- 
son and duty forbid you to marry, which is, I sup- 
pose, what you mean ? ” 

“There, Hess," he returned somewhat sharply, 
“there you are — the voice of the world, that thinks 
there’s no case of conscience outside the Articles and 
the Ten Commandments. I tell you I was poor, 
sick, ambitious, ill-tempered and mad ; and I am now 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


*55 

a little less poor, much less ambitious, but sick ill- 
tempered, and a great deal more mad, besides being 
old. Had I married I should now be in Bedlam and 
my wife a beggar as my own mother was, and my 
children a pack of miserable beggars such as I was, 
and with the same curse on them. I know not 
whether the folly or the crime of it would have been 
greater. ” 

“ But, sir,” she resumed more pleadingly, “ 'twould 
sure be much better for you to have a woman to tend 
you when you were sick, than a rough footman, 
whom you yourself say is dull.” 

“A woman, Hess? What woman? A wife, d'ye 
mean, to pry and gaze upon me, and go whisper of 
the poor Doctor and his fits with the dear goodies her 
neighbours? You think she wouldn't? I tell you 
this, Missessy, I know of no woman of sense or spirit 
who'd bear to be used as I use Patrick at times, with- 
out resentment ; 'twould not be in human nature that 
she should. She'd grow to detest and to despise her 
husband, and she'd always be watching him, to see 
if the fit was coming on. I promise you when we 
had a difference of opinion, she'd remember my wits 
were not always as clear as they should be. Why, 
the very thought of it would be enough to drive me 
stark staring mad.'' 

There was silence, and then he resumed in a very 
gentle voice, that markedly contrasted with the sharp- 
ness of his preceding tone : 

“I confess, Essie, that you dealt with me, you 
tamed me better than I could have thought possible, 
the only time you ever saw me in my sickness. Yet 
'twas but a touch of it, a threatening, that day — you 
know when I mean, don't you ? — in Bury Street, on 
your cousin’s wedding-day. I’m glad 'twas no worse. 

I could not have borne you to see me worse. You'd 
hate and despise me if you did. Yet, little Hesskin, 

I have often thought of it since when I've had a bad 
fit, and been fool enough to fancy you’d have tended 
me when I was roaring with pain more cleverly than 
Patrick, and set me down too when I got angry — 
just made me remember myself, and keep quiet. I 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


25 6 

never thought a woman could have set me down 
when I needed it as you do, Essie, and I not resent 
it.” 

The cup of Esther’s emotion was already brimming, 
and at this acknowledgment it overflowed. In 
another moment she was fallen across his feet, cling- 
ing to them, crushing her soft arms and bosom and 
fine crape against them, not indeed shedding tears, 
but sobbing passionately between her almost inaudible 
words. 

“ Then why mayn’t I serve you ? I only want to 
serve you. You say I do it better than Patrick, and 
yet you won’t let me. Why ? I see no reason. It 
would be kinder to let me come, and if you killed me 
—if you should kill some one, it had better be me, for 
I should not care — it would not hurt me half so much 
as your killing, killing words and your sending me 
away. How can you dream that anything on earth 
could alter you to me — make you one whit less loved, 
less honoured ? You’ve cut me to the soul in telling 
me of your affliction, and you ought to let me share 
it. I have a right to share it.” 

Swift drew her gently up till she was kneeling again, 
but this time nearer to him, and as he laid his hand 
on her two clasped hands, her eyes were but little 
below his own. It was a long, a deeply agitated and 
melancholy look, that he allowed himself into those 
pleading eyes. It was all that, and more. Esther’s 
violent sobs had ceased, though her lips still trembled. 

“Impossible,” he said at length, 

There was one obstacle to the accomplishment of 
Esther’s desires which he did not mention, and which 
might not have seemed to every one, as it did to him, 
the most insuperable. 

Those other obstacles between him and marriage 
he had always before found enough, yet now it is 
possible that they might have been swept away by 
the onrush of a stronger tide than any they had yet 
had to resist, had it not been for this hidden barrier. 

That was firmly fixed in his mind, and moreover 
could he have brought himself to discover it to Essie, 
she also would have recognised its inflexible nature. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

The tender blameless ties which had bound him for 
so many years to Esther Johnson did not imply mar- 
nage with her, but they forbade marriage with an- 
other He was too upright to plead before the tri- 
bunal of his consience the absence of any agreement 
between them, yet he could not bring himself to allow 
ner claims to another, to acknowledge in so many 
words that he was not a free man. It was only since 
his relations to Esther Vanhomrigh had become dis- 
quieting, that he had put these claims before himself 
and it was against his nature, his feeling at the mo- 
ment, and all the traditions of his life to explain them 
to Essie. He pretended to himself that the secret 
was Esther Johnson's more than his own, and there- 
fore he could not honourably divulge it to any one, 
least of all to another woman, who would no doubt 
take a conventional view of the matter, and refuse 
to regard him as bound by ties so singular and so 
informal. Probably she would make imputations 
on Mrs. Johnson's character, if she knew that Pdfr. 
shared his income with Ppt. ; and without telling 
that, the whole of his obligations in the matter would 
not be clear. It was not now that these thoughts 
came into his mind in any sequence ; he had had but 
too much occasion for them before, and the sum of 
them was already there, both for good and for evil. 

“ Impossible,” he said ; loyal with all the strength 
of his will and his judgment to Esther Johnson, and 
a long past that was his own and hers, even while 
his arm was round that other Esther, who had grown 
too dear to him, and whose face was lifted to his so 
child-like soft and fair, so beautifully transparent m 
the light of a passion that was as innocent as it was 
measureless. The colour which had returned to 
Esther's cheek beneath that long look, ebbed again. 
She withdrew her hands and sat down a little wav 
off him. 

“ If you do not love me,” she said, “why do you 
tell me your secrets ? ” 

“ Good God, Essie ! ” cried Swift, and took his hat 
off his head and dashed it on to the ground ; “ what 
in Heaven's name can I say to you ? ” 

17 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


258 

Then he edged up nearer to her, and laying his 
hand once more on her two clasped ones : 

“ Hess,” he said solemnly, “you are dearer to me 
than any living creature ; you are of all women her 
whom I most esteem and adore. For God’s sake be 
content with this, and cease to torture one that loves 
you but too sincerely. My resolution is taken, and 
has been taken for as many years as you have been 
in this most unhappy world. Either we part for ever 
here and now, or you pledge me your word — I know 
’tis sacred — that you will, withc/tit further questioning 
of my reasons, accept my inalterable determination. 
If in poetry Cadenus has spoken less plainly, has ap- 
peared to vacillate in this matter, why, Vanessa knows 
better than any one that poets play strange tricks 
with the truth, even when they pretend to tell it. 
The Dean says plainly to his dear, dearest friend, 
that her lover he has not been, nor will be ; her hus- 
band he cannot, nor ever can be ; her friend he has 
been, is, and will be to the end of his miserable days. 
Do you promise, Missessy ? ” 

Esther was silent a little ; then in a low deliberate 
voice : 

“I cannot promise to be content,” she answered. 

Swift rose to his feet. He dared not look down at 
Esther ; he looked through the tall hedgerow elms 
away to the downs. 

“Then farewell, child, farewell !” he said hastily; 
“and God bless you ! ” Esther seized his coat. 

“Stop!” she cried, she too springing to her feet, 
“I did not mean that. Wait till I tell you what I 
mean. I wish to say that I do not see how any 
mortal can promise what they will feel or think. Alas ! 
Who would invite their own thoughts and feelings, 
could they foresee them ? ” 

“Who, indeed ! ” groaned Swift. 

“And I cannot promise not to reproach you, should 
you behave ill to me, for I could not avoid doing so. ” 

Swift smiled a grim, melancholy smile. 

“No, Governor Huff, on my conscience I do not 
believe you could. You speak the truth as usual, 
Missessy, and having been so honest as to tell me 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


259 

what you cannot promise, pray now tell me if there 
is anything you can ? ” 

Esther paused, and then spoke with her eyes on 
the ground. 

“I promise to restrain my feelings as much as lies 
in my power, and I also promise never again to — 

to ” she hesitated, then looking him in the face 

she continued in a clear, steady voice, “never to 
attempt by word or deed to make you alter your 
determination.” 

“Well said ! Well said, child ! ” he cried. “I ap- 
plaud your resolution. Believe me, by restraining an 
inclination we get completely the better of it in time. ” 
And smiling somewhat ironically — “I once loved 
figs, you know, and now can see ’em without the least 
desire to taste ’em.” 

“Have you promised me anything in return?” 
asked Esther gravely, without noticing this philo- 
sophical reflection, which its author had perhaps 
addressed more to himself than to her.” 

“Yes,” he returned as gravely; “give me your 
hand. ” She did so. “I promise you, Essie, ” he said, 
“a most tender and devoted and constant friendship 
from this day to the day of my death, which I pray 
the Almighty may not be a very great way off. 
Amen.” 

He held her hand a moment longer. Then : 

“ Let us go on,” he said. “ Moll will be expecting 
us.” 

The silence which followed as they walked side by 
side in the direction of Wantage was instinct with 
calm happiness to Esther. Whatever she might feel 
in the future about the compact into which they 
had entered, . and the manner in which Swift fulfilled 
his part of it, just now it seemed very sweet and 
sacred. For Swift that silence was full of inward 
debate. 

“I have surely sacrificed this poor child and my 
own inclinations sufficiently,” he protested to himself. 
“A man is not bound to be the friend of one woman 
only, as he is bound to be the husband of one wife 
only,” And yet a voice went on repeating with a 


26 o 


ESTHER V A NH0MR1GH. 


monotonous cuckoo-cry: “Pdfr. does not love Ppt. 
Poor Ppt. ! ” And all love and all affection, and the 
very bond into which he had just entered, seemed 
to him dust and ashes, mocked as they were by this 
memento mori , this ghost of sweet things dead. 

They walked thus in silence for awhile, and then 
Swift began once more to discuss the tangled business 
affairs of the Vanhomrigh family. Ginckel was still 
in Paris, alleging fifty reasons why his successful 
courtship of the rich widow could not be brought to 
a crisis. Meantime he was indignant at his appro- 
priation of Molly’s money being called anything but 
a loan, to which he had a right. 

“Why do you not apply to Cousin Purvis?” asked 
Swift. 

“The poor lady has had a stroke of the palsy, and 
has lost her senses for the present,” replied Esther. 
“Besides, our poor mamma applied to her so often 
that I believe I should have been ashamed to.” 

“And Ford? How did Ford behave ?” asked he. 
Esther shrugged her shoulders. 

“Oh, like other people — shabbily.” 

“I am sorry to hear it,” returned he. “Before I 
left town I thought him sincerely attached to Mollkin. ” 

“ He left a formal condolence at the door. ’Tis all 
we have heard of him these two months. ” 

“Shabby, very shabby,” repeated Swiff. “Yet I 
think myself exceedingly foolish in continuing to be 
surprised at the baseness of mankind.” 

“To do him justice, I do not think ’twas the ill 
report of our money matters kept him away. But I 
wish there were some sumptuary law, whereby the 
common mob of sentiments should be forbid to wear 
names that are too fine for ’em. No matter. We 
have had the pleasure of proving that we possess 
two or three friends ; and those that never knew mis- 
fortune or calumny cannot swear to so many.” 

“Very justly said, miss ! Ah ! Tis an ill world.” 
Esther smiied. 

“I thought it so, sir, some hours back, but find it 
now wonderfully changed for the better.” 

When they had arrived at the Bear Inn, had passed 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


261 


up the stairs, and stood at the Miss Vanhomrighs’ 
parlour door, Esther paused. 

Pray do not remark on Molly’s sick looks,” she 
said anxiously. 

“ Hath she never a jest left in her composition ? ” 
asked Swift. 

“ Some folks can jest on the rack,” returned Esther. 
“ But I doubt their jests are but a more courageous 
kind of groan, and they give me no pleasure to hear. ” 

When they opened the door the first thing they saw 
was a crooked little gentleman huddled up in the 
corner of a large chair. He rose as they entered, and 
advancing upon the Dean with open arms, embraced 
him as heartily as their respective heights allowed. 

“ Pope ! ” cried Swift, half pleased, half vexed. 
“You here ! I never thought to see you till Friday.” 

Then he turned to Molly, and with difficulty re- 
pressed an expression of pain and surprise, so terribly 
changed and thin did she look in her heavy mourning. 

Mr. Pope, who was staying at Stanton Harcourt, 
was to spend two days with Swift at Letcombe Bassett, 
and the chaise was being got ready ; so very soon 
the two gentlemen took their leave. Essie stood at 
the foot of the stairs, looking out into the inn-yard to 
see them depart. They had made their adieux, and 
Mr. Pope was already in the chaise, when Swift came 
up to her again, hat in hand. 

“ Good-bye, Hess,” he said. “Tis very uncertain 
when we shall meet again but I will write to you 
when the occasion offers. I go to Ireland shortly. 
When do you return to London ? ” 

“I do not know,” replied Esther hesitatingly. 
“Seeing how our affairs stand there and in Dublin, 
’tis more likely we also shall go to Ireland. ” 

He stood silent ; then clapping his hat on his head : 

“You should not for the world have come here,” 
he cried. “ No, indeed you should not 1 ” 


262 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


CHAPTER I. 

“Well, Dr. Winter? When may I wish you joy?” 

“Never, I fear, Mrs. Conolly, unless you can find 
me some ally more powerful than my own merits.” 

“Pooh, Doctor! I believe you do not press the 
lady sufficiently.” 

“I own, madam, I see little satisfaction or diplo- 
macy in forcing her to the point-blank ‘No.’” 

“Faint heart never won fair lady, sir.” 

The speakers stood in the lane just outside the 
Miss Vanhomrighs’ house at Cellbridge, in the county 
of Dublin. One a Roman matron in the hood and 
kerchief of a Georgian lady, the other a divine not 
much past thirty with an intelligent face and the air 
of a gentleman. 

“ Tis the fair lady’s purse, not herself, makes my 
heart faint,” said the young man. “Besides, the 
very sincerity of my attachment, which has been 
long a-growing, will not allow me to talk of flames 
and ardours, like a young fellow who has fallen in 
love with a mask at a ball. Could I but persuade 
some friend who has influence with Miss Vanhomrigh 
to tell her how much I am above sordid motives, 
how much less cold are my feelings than they appear 
— Madam, will you not be my friend ? ” 

Mrs. Conolly paused before she answered. 

“Dear Dr. Winter, you will smile if I say I dare 
not, yet ’tis the truth. You know how greatly I have 
this match at heart, and how truly I esteem and like 
Miss Vanhomrigh ; yet I feel there’s a certain point 
in our intimacy which I reached three or four years 
since and beyond which I cannot get. There’s, as it 
were, a locked door in the way ; I have not the key 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 263 

to it, and fear should I force it on your behalf, the 
consequences would be more unhappy to you than 
to me.” 

“Madam,” returned Dr. Winter, “I must bow to 
your decision. There's but one other friend Miss 
Vanhomrigh and I have in common, who may be 
able to do me this service. I mean the Dean of St. 
Patrick's.” 

Mrs. Conolly looked at the young man with a 
somewhat comical expression, which however he 
was too absorbed in his own reflections to observe. 

“I believe there is nothing would advantage you 
so greatly, sir, if you could persuade him to under- 
take as much for you. Yet I own I should tremble 
— I will not often confess to fearing the Dean, who 
ought not to be flattered by a too visible awe — yet, 
between ourselves, I should tremble ■" 

Dr. Winter smiled superior. 

“ Oh, madam, I am not one of those that are 
frightened of the Dean. I have never truckled to 
him nor had occasion to complain of disrespect from 
him ; quite the contrary. I have ever found him 
the most considerate as he is the wittiest and most 
agreeable of companions. There's no man living I 
admire so much as the Dean of St. Patrick's.” 

“Then you are all in the fashion,” returned Mrs. 
Conolly. “ I remember well when he came back to 
Dublin seven or eight years ago — or whenever it 
was that the late Queen died — I was resolved to like 
him because 'twas the fashion to do quite the con- 
trary. Why, he could not take his ride on the strand 
but he must be hustled by unmannerly fellows of 
quality, and 'twas reckoned the best breeding in the 
world for his old acquaintances to stare at him as 
though he were newly arrived from China if he 
ventured to address 'em in the street.” 

“Madam, you amaze me,” cried Dr. Winter with 
warmth. “I have heard something of the kind 
before, yet I never cease to be amazed at it. I am 
glad I was absent from Dublin at the time, as their 
treatment of this great man would have filled me 
with an incurable disgust to its inhabitants.” 


264 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

“Matters are now so much altered for the better/' 
continued Mrs. Conolly, “that I'll confess to you I 
myself have never been able to determine whether 
he is charming or odious." 

Dr. Winter exclaimed. 

“I cannot hinder it, Doctor. Say I go to bed o’ 
Monday at rest in the conviction that I cannot suffer 
him, I am certain to meet him before Sunday and be 
forced to adore him. It must be owned that, what- 
ever his faults, he is the least wearisome of mortals." 

“He hath as much variety in his talents and dis- 
position as four commoner men put together," cried 
the enthusiastic young divine, “and 'tis greatly to 
be wished that Providence could grant him four 
times the usual length of life, for in the short space 
of three-score years and ten 'tis impossible that he 
should do justice to all his qualities." 

Mrs. Conolly tapped him with her fan and laughed. 

“My stars, Doctor, you alarm me ! I believe you 
and some other fiery young fellows will be proclaim- 
ing Jonathan King of Ireland, and down with King 
George, presently. I’ll bid you farewell before I 
must hear treason. Farewell, and good luck to your 
wooing. " 

She reached him her hand, which he kissed gal- 
lantly, and the two went their respective ways : Dr. 
Winter to the inn where his horse was stabled, Mrs. 
Conolly to a door in the high wall which admitted 
her to the Miss Vanhomrighs' domain. 

She entered the house unannounced, a privileged 
guest, and finding no one in the book-room where 
they commonly sat, proceeded to the dining-parlour. 
Miss Anna Stone stood there, bent double over a 
table and absorbed in composing some garment from 
sundry fragments of tawdry silk picked up at an auc- 
tion in Dublin. Mr. Stone had lately been a loser in 
one of the bubble companies of the day ; for the com- 
mercial spirit which was making the British Empire 
while politicians strutted on their petty stage was 
already a tricksy as well as a powerful sprite. Mr. 
Stone had consequently given up his London house 
and was waiting for a country living that must shortly 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 265 

be vacant. Meantime, Miss Stone was homeless, 
for her sister was one of those not uncommon people 
who conceive marriage to imply a complete absolu- 
tion from the duties of kinship and friendship ; so 
Anna bethought herself of her cousins in Ireland. 
There were several families of these, but somehow 
wherever else she was invited she always drifted 
back to Cellbridge again before long. 

She returned Mrs. Con oily’s greeting hurriedly, as 
one interrupted in an absorbing occupation. 

“You will find my cousins in the garden-parlour, 
madam,” she said, speaking with one side of her 
mouth only, because she held a pin in the other, and 
pointing with a large pair of scissors to a door on the 
opposite side of the room to that on which Mrs. 
Conolly had entered. 

“Pray tell me, miss,” asked Mrs. Conolly gravely, 
“how does Miss Molly do? Do you see a great 
change in her since you w.as last here? ” 

Miss Stone, who had now accumulated three pins 
in her mouth and was contemplating her work with 
her head on one side, took them out severally and 
inserted them to her satisfaction before she an- 
swered. 

“Change, madam? Lord, yes. I thank God I 
an not as blind as a bat ; I was never like some 
folks, lacking in observation. You’ll excuse me, I 
beg, madam, for continuing my work. We that have 
lost our fortunes cannot afford fine manners.” 

“ I beg you’ll be easy and not inconvenience 
yourself, madam,” returned Mrs. Conolly. “Do 
you think our excellent Miss Molly very sick ? ” 

“Oh, she’s not long for this world!” returned 
Miss Stone, cutting basting-threads and whisking 
them out through the crackling silk. “I could see 
that as soon as I was back ; I’ve a wonderful quick 
eye for illness. I should say she’d not last longer 
than — than old New Year’s Day or thereabouts, and 
’tis strange how seldom I am wrong in my forecasts. 
Some are too hopeful and some too apt to give folks 
up, but over and over again it has happened that 
sick persons have taken the turn for the better or 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


266 

died on the very days I have prophesied it of ’em. 
Yes, sure, Cousin is very sadly, for if you’ll believe 
it she’ll not endure so much noise as the pulling out 
of a thread in her neighbourhood, or I would be glad 
to keep her company while I worked. But I know 
not how to be idle. I am one of those that must 
always be doing.” 

“Does Miss Vanhomrigh think so ill of her sister’s 
health ? ” asked Mrs. Conolly. 

Miss Stone shrugged her shoulders. 

“Cousin Vanhomrigh’s a strange girl — strange 
woman, I should say, as you must very well know, 
madam. She talks as though her sister was as like 
to live as you or I. ‘When Moll is better we shall 
do this and that,’ says she. For my part I call it 
downright heathenish not to prepare for death ; but 
I’ve done my duty in calling her attention to her 
sister’s state and can do no more. Last night when 
Cousin Mary was dozing ihere was a winding-sheet 
on the candle just over against her; sol pointed it 
out to Cousin Vanhomrigh, and I assure you she was 
most uncivil. ’Tis not every one could live friendly 
in this house, but ’tis ever my device to bear and for- 
bear.” 

Mrs. Conolly, who saw she had learned as much 
from Miss Stone as she was likely to learn, passed 
into the garden-parlour. This was a small room 
with a glass door opening on to a stone terrace. 
The door was shut and Molly’s couch was drawn up 
near the fire. Her eyes were closed, and in that 
state of repose the worn and deathly aspect of her 
face was startlingly visible, whereas when she spoke 
or smiled it was disguised by the animation of her 
look. Her sister sat on a low stool before the hearth, 
with her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. 
A book lay open before her, but she was staring into 
the fire. A dish of oranges and a coffee-pot stood 
on a table near. Both young women were absorbed 
in their own thoughts and did not hear Mrs. Conolly, 
as she opened the door and came softly round the 
screen that half enclosed them. She paused ; per- 
haps even she, robust as she was in mind and body, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


267 

was momentarily affected by something ominous 
and melancholy in the silence that brooded over this 
pair of sisters. Molly perceived her before she spoke, 
and sat up to greet her with outstretched hands and 
the charming smile that, together with her bright eyes, 
was all that now remained of the gay loveliness of 
her early youth. Esther too rose and greeted her 
courteously, but with a listlessness that looked like 
coldness. 

“I trust this change of weather hath got the better 
of Miss Molly’s cough,” said Mrs. Conolly, holding 
Molly’s hand and looking at her sister. 

“Of course it has, madam,” returned Esther 
hastily, almost sharply. “I knew she would be 
sadly, so long as that bitter north-east wind blew ; 
there’s very few that do not feel the ill effects of it. 
She’s a world easier now ’tis gone, and begins to 
think of growing strong and hearty before the 
summer.” • 

Molly put her hands up to her ears, and in doing 
so threw back her sleeve-ruffles, showing arms no 
larger than a child’s. 

“Pray now, ladies, pinch me when you have done 
talking of me,” she cried with a pout, “or when 
you have found something diverting to say about 
me. But that’s impossible. I’ve not even a new 
ailment, and my own grandmother, were she alive, 
would be tired of talking of my old ones before now. 
O that I should be condemned thus early to prove 
the most insipid theme for my neighbours’ discourses 
of any woman in Dublin that’s under eighty ! But 
’tis even so. Tell me, Mrs. Conolly, when will your 
new house be ready for dancing in ? I hear ’tis a 
vast deal finer than the Castle.” 

So they began to talk of the palace Mr. Conolly 
was building for himself at the other end of the 
village, Molly out of breath but not out of spirits, 
and Esther, with her grave, pre-occupied air, talking 
with more determination than interest, to save her 
sister’s voice. But the other thoughts that had been 
in her mind as she sat and stared at the fire were 
there still. After a time Mrs. Conolly found a con- 


268 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


venient opportunity for speaking of Doctor Winter, 
whose taste she said she was consulting in the plant- 
ing of her garden and grounds. 

“I believe he has helped you in designing your 
beech-grove, Miss Vanhomrigh,” she continued, 
“and a mighty pleasant one it will be when all of 
us are dead and buried. Pray now consult him 
about the planting of your laurels.” 

“O madam,” cried Esther, tossing her chin defi- 
antly, “I love my laurels, and I love to plant ’em 
with my own hands just when and where I please.” 

“ I hope, miss, you are not cruel to Doctor Winter. 
He is a very ingenious and learned young gentleman, 
and besides extremely well-bred. I think you should 
be proud to be highly esteemed by him.” 

“We are proud,” murmured Molly. “I, in par- 
ticular, madam, am exceedingly proud of Doctor 
Winter’s attentions.” 

“Molly!” cried Esther, and blushed; then con- 
tinued— “ Indeed, madam, we are proud of Doctor 
Winter’s friendship, but ’tis not at all of the nature 
you perhaps suppose, or that mischievous brat there 
would make you suppose. When we first knew him, 
he was very desirous to be presented to the Dean of 
St. Patrick’s, and we did him that service, for which 
he hath ever been grateful. He appears to me to have 
shown a very superior understanding in conceiving 
so great an opinion of the Dean, at a time when the 
world was using him even more scurvily than is its 
custom. Doctor Winter shows himself above the 
common herd by adoring genius, which ’tis well 
known they detest. That alone would make us es- 
teem him, and while Moll has been so very sick, he 
has been in a manner domestic here, reading and 
talking to her both pleasantly and comfortingly. 
For without being an enthusiast, madam, he is a 
truly pious man.” 

“You perceive now, madam,” said Molly, “the 
reason of my sickness lasting such an intolerably 
long time. ’Tis as plain as a pikestaff.” 

Mrs. Conofly, thinking she had done all she could 
for Dr. Winter, turned the conversation to other sub- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGIL 269 

jects, and presently went home in the falling twi- 
light. 

There was silence again when she had left ; Molly 
lying back exhausted and Esther pacing the room 
restlessly, her erect figure darkening more and more 
as it passed between Molly and the light, till it was 
merely a silhouette against the outer twilight, except 
when a red tongue of flame leapt up from the logs on 
the hearth. 

At length, clasping her hands behind her head, 
she began to speak in her low rich voice, sometimes 
raised in indignant protest, sometimes broken by 
despair. 

“This is the seventh day, Molkin. How many 
more am I to wear away in vain expectation, wait- 
ing for one that loved us once, and now thinks not, 
cares not whether you or I be dead or living ? I 
told him I would not be so unreasonable as to expect 
him to a day, but seven days ! — O, I believe I could 
better have endured to have passed them on the rack 
than as I have done ; sighing for the night that sus- 
pense might be over, and all night sighing for the 
morning that I might be able to expect him again. 
Yet when he comes I shall not dare to chide. Once 
I should have dared ; I used to chide him for all his 
faults. Has he grown more awful, think you, Moll, 
since then ? Or I a very abject? I can write and 
upbraid him — I will do so at once — but at the hour 
when he should receive my letter I am shivering at 
the thought of his frown. ” 

“Essie,” said Moll, shading her eyes with her 
hand, “consider that person in the next room.” 

Esther, who happened to be near the door of com- 
munication, opened and shut it again abruptly. 

“Anna has gone, she and her mantua.” 

“Thank God, and would ’twere further!” ejacu- 
lated Molly, and Esther resumed her pacing. 

‘ * Ten weeks ! ” she broke out again. “Ten weeks 
since I saw the only valuable creature the world 
contains for me, excepting yourself. Ten weeks, 
and in all that time but one letter and one note. 
Tell me, Moll, what means this strange, this pro- 


270 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


digious neglect of — of her he once — O Moll, for pity's 
sake tell me what can it mean ? ” 

“Come hither, my dearest Hess,” said Molly, 
“come close. I cannot speak so loud.” 

Esther threw herself on her knees by Molly’s long 
chair. Molly took hold of her sister with her little 
thin, transparent hands, and looked at her with a 
long gaze of infinite pain and compassion, such as a 
mother might have bestowed upon a child. When 
she began to speak it was firmly, though she shivered 
with physical weakness and nervous anxiety as to 
the effect of what she had to say. 

“There is sorriething I have long wished to say to 
you, Essie, but did I not sometimes think I have not 
much more time in which to be talking, I should 
go on fearing to say it. If ’tis too cruel, will you 
promise to forgive me before I die, even though that 
should be to-morrow ? ” 

“ Hush, Moll — you will die if you give yourself up. 
I shall die first.” 

Indeed she looked very ill. Molly smiled a little. 
“You will need to hasten, if you would trip up my 
heels, Hess. Do you promise what I asked ? ” 

“ I cannot bear you to give way to such thoughts, 
but I promise a thousand times over.” 

“You ask me if I can guess the meaning of the 
Dean’s neglect of you,” continued Molly. “ If you 
intended me to invent a plausible excuse for it, I 
have no longer wit to do’t. But, O Essie, my dear, 
I have long ago thought of a good reason for his 
behaviour, and so I believe have you.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Esther faintly. 

“ Have you never mentioned Mrs. Johnson to him, 
Hess?” 

Essie was silent a minute and then answered with 
a certain stubbornness of manner : 

“ Five or six years since in Dublin I spoke to him 
of Mrs. Johnson, being weary of listening to the 
chatter of the disagreeable prying people ’twas our 
misfortune to be thrown amongst, without knowing 
the truth of the matter. He — he was terribly angry 
at my having heard all this tattle and mentioning it 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


271 

to him. He said he would explain to me once and 
for all Mrs. Johnson’s claims on him ; how that she 
had been his ward in all but the lawyer’s sense, ever 
since she was a child, and had the claim of a ward 
and almost a younger sister upon him. He said she 
was very elegant and accomplished and accustomed 
to be treated like a lady by persons of quality, but 
that her family were but servants in the household of 
*the Temples, and therefore he had thought it possible 
to extend to her an honourable protection, such as 
should keep her in the sphere of life to which Sir 
William had accustomed her, without its being thought 
he would marry her. Which he repeatedly assured 
me he had never proposed to do. ’Tis well known 
there’s an elderly woman lives with her, and he as- 
sures me he never visits her except when she is in 
the company of this Mrs. Dingley out of regard to 
her reputation and because he is accustomed to the 
society of both. This is all about Mrs. Johnson.” 

“If this be all, for what possible reason did he 
keep the very existence of one so intimately con- 
nected with him a secret from us, to whom he was 
wont to talk openly enough of his other friends ? 
And, pray, Essie, why has he never introduced to us, 
to us who delight to honour those he loves, this lady 
whom he treats as a sister ? ” 

“You might know him well enough by this time 
Moll, to give up demanding reasons for his whim- 
sical secrecies. Enough that he hates to talk of his 
private affairs. And Mrs. Johnson is not, as you 
must be aware, received by the better families in 
Dublin, that is, where there are ladies.” 

“And what is the cause of that?” asked Molly 
with some indignation. “ Her low birth, you would 
say, but I tell you there’s yet another, and that is the 
Dean himself. ’Tis he has caused the world to look 
on her askance.” 

“You accuse him then of a base intrigue ! ” cried 
Essie fiercely, her cheeks and eyes blazing with 
wrath. 

“I do not,” returned Molly, sitting up and speak- 
ing with unusual strength and energy. “I accuse 


ESTHER VANHOMRTGH. 


272 

him of— I hardly know what. Of being perhaps 
secretly married. The world says so, more and 
more openly of late.” 

“ The world ! ” cried Essie scornfully. “And you, 
Molly, of all women living believe the world ! ” 

“ I do not say 'tis true, but it would explain much 
that has been singular in his conduct. You must 
admit too 'tis pretty odd that Mrs. Johnson receives 
his company for him at the Deanery on public days 
—and he has never allowed us to appear there on 
those days, though he at one time frequently declared 
that we were the only friends he possessed in Dublin. 
Why may we not see Mrs. Johnson?” 

“I will own to you, Molly,” said Esther, master- 
ing her anger, but speaking with reluctance, “he 
admits Mrs. Johnson to be of a jealous disposition 
and averse to his forming intimate friendships with 
other persons of her sex.” 

“What right has he given her to control his inti- 
macies ? Tell me, Essie, dearest Essie, on your 
honour, do you believe Mrs. Johnson to have no 
claim that forbids his offering marriage to another 
woman ? ” 

“Why should he offer marriage? ” returned Esther, 
as white as a sheet. “He considers friendship to 
conduce more to happiness.” 

“ Friendship ! ” cried Molly. “ I know well enough 
what friendship means, and value it too, but 'tis mad- 
ness to call this attachment of yours friendship. 
Tell me, on your conscience, Essie, do you believe 
Mrs. Johnson has claims that prevent his offering to 
marry you ? ” 

“I have sometimes hoped so — since we came to 
Ireland,” replied Esther, covering her face. 

“ Hoped ? ” repeated Molly in amazement. 

“Yes,” continued Esther in a very low voice. 
“They say she is of an extremely weakly consti- 
tution — and should anything happen to her — why, 
then it might be that that supreme happiness which I 
cannot but desire would be granted to me ! ” 

“Esther ! ” cried Molly, can this indeed be you ? 
You, that was all honour and generosity, all mercy 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


273 

and tenderness to every living creature, whether 
man or beast. Heavens, what a change is here ! 
What a deadly change ! 0 Essie, my dear, my 

honoured sister, ’tis not your little Molly speaks to 
you now ; ’tis a woman who has suffered much and 
learned a little in this life, and who must very soon 
enter another. Think — how will you answer this to 
your Maker when you come to be in my situation ? 
— How can you answer it now to your own heart? 
You hope to have been an instrument of wrong and 
suffering to another. You look eagerly for her death 
that your own happiness may be advanced. Shame, 
Essie, shame ! ” — and she paused breathless. 

Esther sank lower and lower as her sister was 
speaking, till she was crouching on the ground with 
her face buried in Molly’s draperies and the cushions 
of the couch. She did not answer immediately, and 
when she did so, it was in a strangled voice. 

“Ay, ’tis easy to talk, to see ’tis wrong, but you 
don’t understand. You don’t know what it means to 
care as I do. ’Tis impossible I should feel other- 
wise. It may be wrong for a drowning man to clutch 
at one that’s swimming, yet none blames him for 
doing it. ’Tis just as unavoidable for me to hope, to 
wish — that . You would if you was in my place, if 
you suffered what I have suffered this ten years.” 

“Perhaps I might, no doubt I should, my dear; 
that does not make it any better. Essie, no good 
has come to you from the Dean, nor ever will. He’s 
a good friend and I love him dearly, but I love you 
far better, and I implore you when I am dead to 
leave this country and see him no more. Think of 
it. You have sense, and must perceive ’tis your 
only right and wise course. Either he will not or he 
cannot marry you. Essie, I implore you, consider 
this matter and promise me to give him up. Promise 
me this, and I shall die in peace.” 

Esther still lay crouched upon the floor. Her 
shoulders heaved with a few deep sobs, and her 
hands were clasped convulsively. 

“I would die for you, Molly,” she said at length 
in a hoarse faint voice, “I would indeed. But I 
18 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


274 


can’t do that. You ask me what is impossible. I 
tell you I cannot.” 

Molly gave an exclamation of despair, and leaning 
back on her couch closed her eyes. 

“At least,” she resumed, opening them, “ you can 
promise me to learn the precise truth. That it is 
your duty to the Dean and Mrs. Johnson as well as 
yourself to know, and he must tell it you. ” 

“I dare not ask him. You don’t guess how angry 
he was that I should mention it that time years ago, 
and either I grow more cowardly or his displeasure 
more awful. Before we came to Ireland I most 
solemnly promised never to speak to him of marriage, 
and in Dublin I promised him never again to torment 
him on the score of Mrs. Johnson. I cannot break 
my word to him.” 

“Go to herself then,” returned Molly. “If she is 
his wife, as one as intimate with him as Mr. Ford 
scruples not to hint, she’ll not hide it from you, and 
she has no right to keep you from this knowledge. 
You can at least promise me to do your utmost to 
discover the truth.” 

“I would rather not promise anything, dear 
Molly,” replied Esther humbly. 

Molly turned her head aside on the cushion, and 
two tears stood on her cheeks. 

“Then do not,” she said. “Go your own way. 
You break my heart and make me glad to die.” 

Esther gave a cry and threw her arms round her 
sister. 

“Moll, Moll, my own dear, what am I to do? 
What do you w T ish ? — I’ll promise you anything you 
will, except to give him up. I can’t do that, Moll. 

I could sooner tear the heart out of my breast. Ah, 
you don’t know. I’ll promise you anything: but 
that.” 


“ Promise me then, Hess, to try earnestly to find 
out the truth about this matter of Mrs Johnson, by 
any means that seem most convenient. I do not say 
at once, but when the occasion offers. ” 

Esther was weeping bitterly with her head on her 
sister’s shoulder. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


275 

“1 dare not — I dare not,” she said between her 
sobs. 

There was a loud knock at the house-door, and 
she lifted her head to listen eagerly and wipe the tears 
from her eyes. 

“No, it cannot be. It is too late,” she said, 
Then starting up: “Whom are you expecting? I 
can see no one.” 

And without waiting for an answer she fled from 
the room. 

In a minute or two the man-servant entered and 
announced a gentleman to wait on Miss Mary. A 
quick, firm step sounded across the floor, and some 
one coming through the fire-lit twilight grasped her 
hands in silence. A moment more and they were 
alone. 

“Francis!” she cried, “I dared not hope it was 
you. ” 

“ Yet you wrote to me to come.” 

“Well, thank God you are come ! I hardly 
thought you could reach Ireland so soon ! Thank 
God you are here ! ” 

And she sank down on her couch again. 

“I started immediately on receiving your letter 
and had a fair wind all the voyage ; and there’s little 
to tempt a man to delay between this and Cork. I 
find the inns are still the scurviest in the world — 
you’d find better lying in an Indian wigwam.” 


CHAPTER II. 

“I pity ye, Mrs. Biddy, sure I pity ye ! ” 

And Patrick shaking his head at the cook with an 
air of deep commiseration, set down his basin and 
other shaving apparatus sharply on the kitchen 
dresser. Biddy looked round with open mouth and 
hand suspended in the act of basting a joint, some- 
what inadequately, with a silver-gilt tea-spoon ; for 
at the Deanery as elsewhere Saxon tyranny and pre- 
judice, embodied in Mrs. Brent the housekeeper, the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


2j6 

Dean and Mrs. Johnson, while preserving a semblance 
of order, was powerless to enslave the free Irish 
spirit. 

“Holy Mother, Mr. Patrick, whatever is the mat- 
ter? ” 

“Only this, Cook, jewel — and ye may believe me, 
for I niver tould a lie— if an angel from heaven was 
cooking that dinner — Faith, what am I saying of 
angels, when ’tis yourself I see before me? — But if 
’twas the Apostle Paul, the Master ’d be afther to call 
it ill-done, and calling it ruinated, before all the 
ballyrag quality. Ah, Biddy darlint, ye may think 
ye’ve come to a bachelor family, where your iligant 
shape and purty manners (those were advantages 
with which Patrick persevered in crediting the cook 
of the moment, under the most discouraging circum- 
stances) ’ll give you a gineral Absolution. That’s 
not the way at all, at all. There’s Brent that’s the very 
mischief, and Mrs. Johnson I’ll call by no such ili- 
gant name, but say she’s the very Divil ; and the 
Dean himself, poor man, that’s got prying ways and 
knows very little what becomes his station. I’ve 
had hopes he’d better himself by a decent marriage 
wid one of the ould sthock ” — here Patrick collapsed 
onto a stool and shook his head mournfully. “But 
I doubt ’tis all off. Tell me, Mrs. Biddy, was it Miss 
Vanhomrigh’s gintleman brought the letter?” 

“Faith, 'twas no gintleman at all,” replied the 
untutored Biddy. “’Twas a little old footman in a 
green livery.” 

11 That’s him,” returned Patrick. “Once on a 
time the Master ’d be in a mighty merry humour, 
when the old leprechaun in green had been here, but 
now — ah, ’tis just the other way. O Biddy, if only 
I could read, I might have foreseen this. But when 
I was in London, we gintlemen’s gintlemen left lam- 
ing to the clargy. Ah, I’ve come down in my no- 
tions, or as some might say have got sinse since 
then, and know a little laming is useful in my thrade. 
’Tis mighty provoking now to think I’ve seen Miss 
Vanhomrigh’s hand again and again this ten years, 
and couldn’t make it out or even swear to ’t, though 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


*77 

for all the Dean’s hide-away tricks, I ve looked at his 
letters from every corner of the paper. If I’d been a 
scholar, the divil’s in it but I should have known in 
time this match was off, and all along of Mrs. John- 
son, I doubt — bad luck to her ! ” 

“Well, well, Mr. Patrick, if Mrs. Johnson is a bit 
troublesome of an afternoon, she don’t come lam- 
pooning round of a morning, so I’d be in no hurry 
for the Master to bring a Mistress in, if I was you.” 

“Begorra, ’tis not me comfort, ’tis me dignity I’m 
considering, Mrs. Biddy,” returned Patrick, sitting 
up. “ Miss Vanhomrigh’s a lady. I won’t say she’s 
such a lady as her mamma that was fit to be wife to 
a nobleman, but a lady she is. What’s Mrs. John- 
son ? Her father a bailiff, they say, and her mother 
a housekeeper. ’Tisn’t such thrash that I’d have put 
over me, nor over you, me dear, and if ’tweren’t for 
the poor master, I’d go back to London by post. But 
there, though he’s a bit touched,” and Patrick pointed 
to his own head, “and bad enough when he’s in his 
tantrums, he’s a good old soul in his way, and he’d 
never get on widout me. Sure I’d never have the 
heart to leave him, poor crayture, just as he’s disap- 
pointed of Miss Vanhomrigh. Bejapers, he tossed 
his head about over her letter this morning so ’twas 
small blame to him he got a skelp of the razor; I 
was in dread he’d be kilt meself.” 

Here there were voices outside which caused 
Patrick to start up and hurriedly seize his basin, and 
Biddy to thrust the tea-spoon up her sleeve, which 
served her as a pocket, and stare wildly round the 
kitchen in search of a humbler implement. 

“ Here, Cook, here’s our share of the dinner,” said 
Mrs. Johnson, bustling in with a large basket on her 
arm, followed by Mrs. Dingley similarly laden. 
“Why, Patrick, you have not got your livery on! 
Don't you know company’s expected?” 

Meantime the Dean was applying as well as he 
could some small pieces of plaster to the cuts be- 
stowed on . him by Patrick. He was clumsy and 
could not make the plaster stick ; so there he stood, 
muttering decorous curses before the shaving-glass 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


278 

in the upstairs room, which he used partly as a dress- 
ing-room and partly as a study, as being more pri- 
vate than his library. At a certain moment he 
became mentally conscious of the reflection in the 
glass, which he had before been staring into merely 
with a view to the arrangement of his strips of plas- 
ter. The elderly annoyed face seen thus close, its 
general impressiveness of outline and indefinable air 
of power and brilliancy lost in the details of line and 
wrinkle, was certainly not beautiful, nor even attrac- 
tive. He saw that plainly enough, and a smile of 
bitter humour parted his lips, and broadened till it 
showed two rows of strong teeth, still white and 
regular. 

“Upon my word, Chloe,” he said, addressing a 
letter that lay open on the table before him. “ I 
wish you joy of your Corydon. A prettier fellow 
never danced on the green, and I doubt not that in 
the days of Methusaleh he would have been reck- 
oned just of an age to begin taking his lessons in 
Love.” 

He took up the letter and began re-reading with 
pishes and pshaws of impatience ; but as he contin- 
ued he ceased to jeer either at the writer or at the 
image in the glass. He leaned back in his chair and 
sighed a sigh half of weariness, half of pain. It was 
only like the rest of her letters. A cry of passionate 
adoration, of passionate reproach and anguish. 

‘ ‘ Don’t flatter yourself, ” said the letter, ‘ ‘"don’t flatter 
yourself that separation will ever change my senti- 
ments ; for I find myself unquiet in the midst of 
silence, and my heart is at once pierced with sorrow 
and love. For Heaven’s sake, tell me what has 
caused this prodigious change in you, which I have 
found of late ! If you have the least remains of pity 
for me left, tell me tenderly. No : don’t tell it so, 
that it may cause my present death, and don’t suffer 
me to live a life like a languishing death, which is 
the only life I can lead, if you have lost any of your 
tenderness for me.” 

So it ended, and he sighed again and fell once more 
into the old train of thought. Yet as years went on 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


279 

the course of it had altered, at first imperceptibly, but 
now always more perceptibly. From the moment 
of Miss Vanhomrigh’s arrival in Dublin he had been 
subject to fits of intense annoyance at her presence 
there, compounded of impatience at the passionate 
and exacting nature of her attachment to him and fear 
lest it should give rise to an explosion in what was 
really his domestic circle, or to a public scandal. 
But at one time these fits alternated with an only too 
clear realisation of the fact that he was never truly 
happy except in that “Sluttery” in Turnstile Alley, 
Dublin, which had been arranged so as to take him 
back in fancy to another “ Sluttery ” in dear St. James’ 
Street, London. The Dublin world was violently 
hostile to him, and had it not been so it contained 
few who were fitted to be his companions. It was 
only in those stolen hours at the Vanhomrighs’ that 
he could shake off the consciousness of his new un- 
congenial surroundings, and feel himself in touch 
again with his London life. The little elegancies 
and luxuries he found there were pleasant to him in 
themselves, opposite as they were to his own hard 
and frugal manner of life, and pleasanter still because 
they recalled to him the days when he was the hon- 
oured guest and friend of the finest and wittiest ladies 
in London. And besides all that, and partly because 
of it, there was another and a deeper cause why he 
had found so great a fascination in the “little times,” 
the “drinking of coffee,” as he called those visits of 
his, in the kind of cypher language which his fancy 
and his caution induced him to use when addressing 
Miss Vanhomrigh — a clumsy caution, since like the 
conspirator’s mask in a melodrama it invited suspi- 
cion. When she first came to her residence in Ireland, 
it might be truly said that Swift was “in love” with 
Esther Vanhomrigh, if it were once fairly admitted 
that there are as many different meanings to that 
phrase as there are different dispositions in the world. 
In the case of Swift it implied no all-pervading 
passion or emotion, but a sentiment which flitted over 
the surface of his nature, and came or went without 
4eflecting its deeper currents. For years this sentir 


2 go ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 

ment had been as it were the bloom on his true 
affection for Esther Johnson, and had they never 
separated, their attachment might have remained 
among the golden pages in the Book of the human 
heart. But it had been his pride to reflect that his 
feeling for Esther Johnson, tender as it was, had never 
had power to shake the conclusions of his judgment ; 
so he had neither married her nor allowed her to fol- 
low him to London. But the mistakes of pure reason 
are sometimes as foolish as those of pure love, since 
both of them reckon with but one side of human 
nature. 

Fate, it must be admitted, seemed bent on showing 
the great satirist that her humour was as biting as his 
own ; especially when she bestowed on Esther Van- 
homrigh an estate in County Dublin. At first legal 
business obliged Esther to take lodgings in the town 
itself, which she did with pleasure, little imagining 
the awkward situation in which she was placing her 
Cadenus. His friend Gay would have found there 
material for another “ Beggar’s Opera,” with a Dean 
in the part of Macheath. It was true, truer than he 
himself knew, that the Dean could have been happy 
with either, if “t’other dear charmer ” had been away. 
Their mutual tenderness, and the extreme adaptabil- 
ity of Mrs. Johnson's mind and character, would soon 
have closed the gulf that Swift’s absence in England 
had opened between himself and her, had there not 
been a reason for coldness on one side and uneasi- 
ness on the other. She could never have given him 
that understanding sympathy in his highest interests 
which he found with Esther Vanhomrigh, but her 
social charm and wit, her ‘ ‘ festivity,” as her friend 
Delany called it, and the natural philosophy of her 
disposition, were completely in harmony with other 
sides of his complex nature. Swift’s love for her 
might have lost its bloom, it might have been in 
abeyance, but it could not be wholly destroyed. It 
was never, however, in so much peril as for the first 
years after his return to the Deanery. His public and 
social life was full of difficulties and disagreeables ; 
now was the time when the old gay, unexacting 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


281 


tenderness he had learned to expect from Ppt. would 
have exerted more than its old charm. He found 
instead a measured friendliness, an irritability that 
showed itself in cold sarcasm to himself and in down- 
right snubs to Dingley. Dingley, too, gave him the 
impression that she was secretly against him. The 
presence of Dingley at all their interviews had been 
a condition of his own making, which he was there- 
fore ashamed to break of his own accord, but he some- 
times wished Ppt. would have whispered to him in 
her pretty way, half-laughing, half-wistful, that she 
had an errand in the town for Dingley, if he could 
possibly spare his D. D. Once she would do so, and 
he would say “No” to the suggestion. Now he 
would have hailed it, but she appeared resigned to 
the situation or averse to seeing him alone. He 
wondered what she knew, but concluding silence 
and jealousy incompatibilities in a woman, he un- 
justly suspected her friend and his own predecessor, 
Dr. Sterne, of having spoiled her by a too servile 
admiration, and even perhaps by an offer of marriage. 
Meantime his happiest hours were spent at the Van- 
homrighs’ ; in the warm atmosphere of Esther’s love 
and ardent sympathy. Little by little beneath the 
stress of his own feelings and of her complaints, his 
resolution to seldom go there gave way. He never 
went often enough to satisfy her, but at least he went 
often enough to set afloat the gossip to which he was 
so femininely sensitive. Angry with himself, with 
Esther, with everybody, he determined to break off 
their intercourse for a time, and she submitted with a 
better grace than he expected, triumphantly conscious 
that his relations to her had become much more tender 
during the year and a half that she had been in Ire- 
land, and not yet believing Mrs. Johnson to be a 
serious obstacle. • She removed to Cellbridge, but the 
report which had reached Swift reached Ppt. also. 
She had heard enough and to spare of the Miss Van- 
homrighs’ elegance and “abundance of wit,” and the 
good fortunes they would have when their law-matters 
were settled. As new-comers they had made some 
sensation in Dublin. Mrs. Johnson’s friend, Mr. Ford, 


282 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


who was snut out of politics by the fall of his party, 
finding them well received, had devoted his leisure 
to falling seriously in love with Molly, who, though 
more delicate than of old, had not been an invalid 
during the first years of their residence in Dublin. 
The Vanhomrighs, however, did not forgive his 
former defection. Then came the definite report that 
Swift was to marry the elder. In vain did the two 
ladies retire to Cellbridge, and Swift pay his daily 
visit at Ppt/s lodgings on Ormonde’s Quay, with a 
punctuality born of self-reproach and a reaction of 
feeling. Ppt. was not only pale and worn, but she, 
the soul of “festivity,” was silent and depressed. At 
length came a day when she was ill and would not 
see the Dean. Day after day passed, and still she 
would not see him. Swift was miserable. He real- 
ised then how deeply-rooted was this old attachment, 
and how ill he could spare her out of his life. But so 
strong was the wall of reserve that had grown up be- 
tween these two reserved natures and their common 
shrinking from the “scene ” that could alone break it 
down — a shrinking accentuated on Swift’s side by an 
uneasy conscience — that he preferred making a con- 
fidant of a third person to facing an explanation with 
Mrs. Johnson. He selected the Bishop of Dromore 
for the delicate part of go-bet ween ; andPpt. was grate- 
ful to him for not having approached her directly. 
She feared that the pent-up feelings of years might 
break out at his touch in a way painful to both, and 
sweep before them the last remnants of his love. 
With the Bishop she was able to preserve her dignity. 
She told him how long she had known of the intimacy 
between the Dean and Miss Vanhomrigh, and of the 
continual uneasiness she suffered at his silence on the 
subject, and at the persistent reports of his intention 
to marry the lady. The end of it was that a few 
months after, in the twilight of an April evening, Ppt. 
stole out and over the bridge to the Deanery without 
her Dingley. Swift himself opened the door to her. 
He looked pale and serious, but very gentle and kind. 
He had made a great sacrifice of feeling in offering to 
marry Esther Johnson privately, and it did not strike 


ESfHER VANHOMRIGH. 


283 


him, nor even her at the time, that the sacrifice was 
imadequate. He drew her into the dining-parlour, 
put his arm round her and kissed her gravely on the 
hair, and she laid her still beautiful head on his 
shoulder. They were silent, for the thoughts of both 
flew back to the only other time when they had stood 
in the eternal lover’s attitude. Then — 

“Do you remember the pleached walk at Moor 
Park ? ” she asked with a little nervous laugh, like a 
girl’s. 

“Yes — yes,” he answered sadly, staring over her 
head with melancholy, cavernous eyes. He saw 
the green pleached walk, with the summer shower 
and the summer sunshine glistening at once upon 
it; he saw the pair that had sheltered beneath it, 
the tall, dark, ill-dressed young Secretary, gnawed 
by dissatisfied pride and ambition, and saw beside 
him that gay, enchanting creature, half child, half 
woman, who had known so well how to soothe 
alike the sufferings of his heart and of his vanity — 
whose toy and whose idol, whose slave and whose 
god he had been in the idyllic days at Moor Park. 
He saw her as if it had been yesterday, as she stood 
there on a garden bench reaching up to catch a 
cherry-tree spray, that had somehow’ found its w r ay 
through the upper greenery of the pleached walk, 
and pulling and eating the ripe crimson cherries 
with childish eagerness. And she had thrown a 
bunch down to him, and he had let them fall on the 
ground, and would not eat them. Then playful, yet 
a little petulant too, she shook the rain-laden branches 
above him, and down rushed a cold glittering 
shower of water over his head and shoulders, and 
also between his neck and his cravatte. An excla- 
mation of anger on his part, and at a bound she w T as 
close to him, hastily wiping his coat wdth her hand- 
kerchief, and lifting the loveliest of young faces, 
half laughing, half pleading, to his. So it had hap- 
pened that his arms had been round her before this, 
and then he had kissed her, not as now and some- 
times since, once on the forehead, but a dozen times 
on the mouth. Perhaps the advent of an under- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


284 

gardener had alone prevented the utterance of some 
word too definite to be withdrawn. As it was, he 
regained his prudence and presence of mind suffi- 
ciently to say with pretended severity as they walked 
homewards/ that Ppt. was grown a great girl now 
and must give up her hoyden ways, and he for his 
part begged pardon for forgetting that she was no 
longer a little miss but a fine young lady, and should 
be careful to remember it in his future behaviour. 
Yet the brief episode, whose significance he had thus 
at once tried to obliterate, had remained in both 
their memories. 

“We are both of us a little older than we were 
then,” said the Dean, shrugging his shoulders and 
smiling sadly. “Even you, Ppt., are a little the 
worse for wear, though you are still too handsome 
by half to throw yourself away on a battered old 
hulk like me. Yes, we are too old friends to turn 
lovers ; but believe me, my dear, if anything could 
have given me a greater affection and esteem for you 
than I had before, *tis this conduct of yours, so much 
above your sex — this keeping silence when — in a 
matter which — which ” He paused. 

“Hush!” she cried nervously. ‘ ‘ Don’t let’s speak 
of it ; ’tis all over as far as I am concerned. Believe 
me, dear honoured friend, I have been nothing but 
proud and content to be loved any fashion you 
chose, so long as you loved me. And you do love 
me, don’t you, Pdfr. ? ” 

“Oh, yes, Ppt. No one knows me as well as you 
do. We were very happy together once, and now 
we are going to be happy together again, aren’t we, 
Ppt. ?” 

“Quite happy,” she answered with a smile of con- 
fidence, and arm in arm they went out into the gar- 
den, where the Bishop and Mr. Ford were awaiting 
them. Mr. Ford, as a friend equally devoted to Swift 
and Mrs. Johnson, was to be the only witness of the 
marriage ceremony, except Mrs. Brent, the Dean’s 
faithful housekeeper. There was a very small ruined 
chapel in the garden of the Deanery, and when the 
twilight was deepening to darkness, the Bishop 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH. 


285 

slipped on a surplice and stood where the altar had 
been. Mr. Ford held a small lantern where it could 
give just light to read the service by, while Mrs. 
Brent stood sentinel at the door. Hastily and in a 
low voice the Bishop read a shortened form of the 
marriage service to the little group round the lantern. 
It was a still night ; and the thick ivy on the ruined 
walls gleamed in the light unstirred by any wind, 
and the hubbub of the city was plainly audible about 
them, the coaches rolling to rout or theatre, the cries 
of chairmen and link-boys, and the loud chaffering of 
buyers and sellers at the itinerant stalls within the 
Liberties of the Cathedral. Only a few feet of stone 
separated them from the crowd, which from high to 
low would have been keenly interested in their pro- 
ceedings, had it been aware of them. But the brief 
ceremony passed without detection. Directly it was 
over Mr. Ford closed the dark lantern and the Bishop 
slipped off his surplice. There was a silence, only 
broken by a deep sigh. Whoever sighed it was not 
the bride. 

Half an hour afterwards the unconscious Dingley 
was lending the sanction of her presence to a supper, 
which she little imagined to be a bridal entertain- 
ment. 

This strange marriage did not give Mrs. Johnson 
— she never used the name of Swift — the complete 
and permanent ease of mind she at first believed that 
it did, but it freed her from the dread of seeing the 
position which she had abstained from claiming, 
yielded to a rival. And though it could not at once 
recall to her the vagrant heart of her friend, yet it 
was not without influence on him. His will had 
always in the end proved stronger than his inclina- 
tions ; it had never come so near being conquered by 
them as in the matter of Esther Vanhomrigh. He 
knew that his interviews with her had gradually come 
to be more lover-like than was prudent or honour- 
able ; he had tried to put some stop to them before, 
but in vain. Now that he was formally bound to 
another woman, he felt it absolutely incumbent on 
him to make some change in their relations, at what- 


286 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


ever cost to both. The gossip which had come to his 
ears gave him an excuse for not visiting her at Cell- 
bridge that summer, and he never afterwards visited 
her frequently. A course of this starvation soon re- 
duced his love for her to the dimensions of a tender 
but not inconvenient friendship ; nor could he bring 
himself to believe that it had not had the same effect 
on her. He looked back to his earlier relations with 
her as the most interesting and thrilling, if not 
the sweetest episode in his life, but apart from the 
fact of his marriage, he was conscious that every 
year he became a more unsuitable object for a 
romantic passion. He could not bear to be made 
ridiculous. So it came to pass that Esther’s letters — 
alas ! how terribly alike, month after month, year 
after year ! — those letters which he had once torn 
open and devoured so eagerly, were now too often 
deliberately set down on his table, till a dish of coffee, 
a walk, or some other invigorating incident had put 
Cadenus into spirits to face their contents. 

A sound of well-known steps and voices on the 
stairs, and after an instant’s hesitation between the fire 
and his escritoire, he hastily pushed Essie’s letter into 
the escritoire and turned the key. 

“Confound women!” he muttered, opening the 
door of his room just as Dingley and Mrs. Johnson 
stood outside it. “ Howdee, Madam Ppt. ? Pray 
now stick this rascally plaster on ; I think ’tis the 
worst that ever was made.” 

“Oh, you bad workman ! ” smiled Ppt. “ I war- 
rant ’tis not the poor plaster is in fault.” And she 
cut a fresh strip or two and applied them. Mean- 
while Swift went on grumbling. 

“You are precious late in bringing the dinner. I 
told you you’d find little enough here.” 

“ You are better than your word,” returned Ppt. 
“ ’Tis a mercy you are generally that, or D. D. and I 
would lead a fine life. There is a good joint in the 
kitchen, and we have brought the rest ready prepared. 

I told you your part should be the wine.” 

“A y, you sent a jxretty message, hoping I woulc} 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH i 


287 

give you a good bottle. One would suppose ’twas 
my custom to give you bad. Well, I can’t give you 
Mergoose, because there an’t such a thing, silly, but 
Margoose there is for you and any other goose to 
mar its stomach with. Why the deuce must you be 
drinking and gaming every night of your life? Why 
can’t you read? Some women do.” 

“ Yes, and are laughed at for their pains by every 
man alive except you, Presto,” returned Mrs. John- 
son drily. 

Presto was a name given to Swift by an Italian 
lady, which had commended itself to Stella’s fancy, 
and almost superseded the old “ Pdfr.” 

“Sure, Dean, if you had your way, you’d make 
poor Hetty lose the use of her eyes with your read- 
ing and stuff,” put in Dingley. 

“O you be quiet, Dingley,” said Hetty, always 
ungrateful to her partisan. “Now see here, you 
naughty, naughty Rogue,” and she held a long strip 
of plaster before his eyes. “ If you won’t be a good 
civil boy, and will be a bad quarrelling boy, I’ll 
just clap this strip of plaster across your mouth and 
shut it up during my Majesty’s pleasure, for you 
know you’ll never get it off for yourself.” 

Swift smiled, and his good humour returned to him. 

“Of all the impudent, pretending hussies ! ” he 

cried. Then he had to submit to sundry criticisms 
on his attire, and be sent to put on the new silk 
gown which Hetty had ordered for him, and which 
she had just seen the tailor’s man bring to the door, 
and at last he was considered ready to receive his 
guests. It was not one of his public days, but Mrs. 
Johnson had hastily contrived a little party in honour 
of the betrothal of Archdeacon Walls’ eldest daughter 
to Mr. Smith, a young English clergyman. 

In those days there was no eating off silver-gilt 
plate at the Deanery, but on the other hand the 
Dean’s quarrels with his servants did not rage unre- 
mittingly during the whole of dinner, as was the case 
in his old age. Mrs. Johnson, sparkling at the other end 
of the table, did much to keep him quiet and contented. 
He had grown proud of her again, prouder even than 


2 88 ESTHER VA N HO MR I GH. 

he had been in her lovely girlhood. She was now 
undeniably past her youth, but hers was not a fugi- 
tive beauty, nor did her indefinable charm depend on 
that. Her character had lost none of its suppleness 
with years. She had discovered, and gradually 
adapted herself as far as possible to the taste for 
feminine elegance which Swift had brought back from 
London, while her mind had once more risen to the 
level of the society which he gathered round him. 
Their circle had at first been small, but of late years 
it had rapidly widened. His wide and just benevo- 
lence, his kind-heartedness and intellectual gifts had 
won over to him both the poor and the more 
intelligent among the rich, before his defence ot 
Irish manufactures had given him a more universal 
popularity. 

“Delany,” he cried, mixing some water and 
sugar with his “ Margoose” — as he and other good 
Britons called ‘their Chateau Margaux — “the toast 
is Irish manufactures. ’Tis no matter whether you 
approve it, for any one sitting next Mrs. Johnson is 
bound to drink it or have the devil to pay. Mr. 
Smith, sir,” to the young English clergyman, who 
was sitting up with ostentatious stiffness on her 
other side, “ pray fill your glass. Mrs. Johnson 
insists.” 

“Tilly vally, no politics among friends, Dean,” 
said she apprehensively, holding up her finger. 

“No ! No politics ! ” thundered the Dean. “Only 
Patriotism. Irish manufactures, gentlemen ! ” 

And he raised his glass — but set it down untasted, 
staring in silence at the opposite wall, where some- 
thing seemed to have caught his eye. Sucking in his 
cheeks, after his manner when tempted to laugh: 

“James Murphy,” he said with dangerous mild- 
ness, addressing a raw Irish servant who stood at the 
sideboard immediately behind him ; “ James Murphy, 
is not that enough for to-day ? — Three penn’orth of 
Malaga raisins and one penn’orth of sweet almonds 
makes fourpence ; but as I scorn to be outdone by a 
servant, even in stealing, I deduct eightpence from 
your board wages.” 


ESTHER VA NHOMRHSH. 


289 

The unfortunate James, who was a new acquisi- 
tion and could not imagine how his master came to 
have eyes in the back of his head, gasped aloud, and 
plunging forward with the dessert dish in his trem- 
bling hands, put it down on the table with a crash 
that made the glasses ring and sent half its contents 
flying across the polished mahogany. Patrick, aware 
of the mirrors on the walls by means of which the 
Dean, whenever he sat at his round table, could see 
what was going on behind him, grinned as much as 
he dared. A furtive smile went round the table. Ppt. 
blushed and bit her lip. Dr. Delany, a good friend 
to Swift, and a better to her, laughed good-naturedly 
and cried out : 

“Come, Dean, you are forgetting your toast. Mrs. 
Johnson is all impatience.” 

Swift coloured and drooped his head in a momen- 
tary confusion, then raising his glass he glanced 
across the table at Ppt., with his brightest, tender- 
est smile. 

“Faith, Stella shall lead off. We fellows are 
never so happy as when we come after her. If Mr. 
Walpole himself were here, she'd make him drink 
his own damnation.” 

So Mrs. Johnson gave the toast. 

“Irish manufactures!” she cried. “Down with 
English monopolies ! ” 

Enthusiastic voices echoed round the table, and 
there was a great tossing of bumpers. Mr. Smith 
alone sat silent and touched his glass with pinched 
lips. Swift addressed him in his most courteous 
manner. 

“Perhaps, sir, you fear to be drawn into party 
politics, but, faith, 'tis no such matter. Whig or 
Tory, we English in Ireland are all of one mind in 
resisting tyranny. ” 

“I trust, Mr. Dean, in whatever country I maybe, 
to remain a faithful friend to His Majesty's ministers,” 
replied Mr. Smith stiffly. 

“I see, sir,” replied Swift, bravely repressing a 
sarcasm, “you fancy this old turncoat is trying to 
seduce you, but believe me when you have been in 
*9 


ESTHER VANH&MRIGH \ 


290 

Ireland a bit longer, you’ll not go over to the other 
side of the House — you’ll be clean against the House 
altogether. What’s Whig and Tory to you and me, 
sir ? We’ve got our own country’s affairs to see after, 
and whatever new-comers may think, they very soon 
join the Irish party — unless they have something to 
get by sticking to Ministers.” 

“Mr. Dean,” said Dr. Winter, his pale, intellectual 
face flushed with enthusiasm, “Mr. Dean, I trust you 
believe there are some of us would not betray our 
country for all the offices and preferments that ever 
were bestowed upon the venal.” 

“ I believe that at least seven virtuous men might 
be found in this city, Winter,” returned the Dean 
kindly, “and that you are one of them. But we 
Catos are not the only useful persons. I remember 
some ten years ago, when I was in London, busied 
with doing you Irish clergy that service for which 
you have ever since so cordially detested me ” 

Here he was interrupted by groans and cries of 
“No, no.” 

“O but I say ‘Yes, yes.’ — Well, ten years ago I 
waited on an Irish clergyman that had got prefer- 
ment in England, and entreated him, that was a 
known patriot, to use his glib tongue in favour of 
his poor country. ‘ With your eloquence, my dear 
sir,’ says I — O, but I was a courtier then, Madam 
Stella ! — ‘ With your eloquence, what influence may 
you not exert?’ ‘Nothing, sir,’ says he, with a 
twinkle in his eye, ‘in comparison to what ’twill be 
when I am Canon of Mudchester. My patriotism is 
red-hot, sir, and will not grow cold by a little keep- 
ing.’ When he was Canon I waited on him again, 
but he assured me that his patriotism would show 
much better from the elevation of a Deanery. So, 
more for diversion than profit, I addressed myself to 
him at every step in his promotion, till he had arrived 
at his second Bishopric. ‘ At length, sir,’ says he, ‘I 
can gratify you, for no Irishman will ever be pro- 
moted to the Primacy. Let us consider the wrongs 
of our unhappy country.’ And ever since he has 
been doing so, ay, and to some purpose.” 


ESTHER VANH0MR1GH. 


291 

“Yeti hope you’ll allow us to prefer before his 
a patriotism like yours, Mr. Dean,” said Dr. Winter, 
“that’s beyond the control of ambition.” 

“ How do you know that, sir?” returned Swift 
drily. “You must be sensible there’s not a cat in 
Ireland but’s had as good a chance of promotion as 
myself this eight years. I might have forgot my 
country had I stayed in London — but never, I think, 
remembered its wrongs with indifference. I’ll say 
for myself that I heartily hate iniquity wherever and 
whosoever’s it may be,— Oh, I grow lean with hating 
it ! Delany, how comes it you and Mrs. Johnson 
grow fat. among the Philistines ? Why does not your 
flesh shrink at the unrighteousness of the wicked ? ” 

“Because, Mr. Dean,” returned Dr. Delany, “we 
have an eleventh commandment against that.” 

“ How so, Doctor? ” 

“ ‘ Fret not thyself because of the ungodly.”’ 

“A very good answer, Delany, a very good 
answer,” returned Swift gently and sighed. “As for 
Mrs. Johnson, if I could put into my head half the 
philosophy of her heart, I should be the very prince 
of philosophers.” 

So he resigned for a time the leadership of the con- 
versation, and Mrs. Johnson began describing the 
humours of a hunting-party at Mr. Ford’s country-seat, 
where she had lately been staying, and every one 
laughed except Mr. Smith, who was determined not 
to commit himself in any direction. Then coffee 
came in, which the Dean insisted on making himself, 
for he Openly called Mrs. Johnson’s coffee ratsbane, 
and always declared he knew but one other person 
besides himself whose coffee was worth drinking ; 
but would only grunt if an indiscreet friend inquired 
who that person might be. For it was Esther Van- 
homrigh. 

Now Madam Ppt. dearly loved cards. On Sundays 
the Dean read her a sermon, and she did battle the 
while conscientiously, but not always successfully, 
with sleep, generally contriving to catch the last 
word he had read, when he startled her by asking 
what it was in a tone of severe suspicion. On week- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


292 

days she played piquet, quadrille, or a round game, 
according to the number of the party, either from 
dinner to supper, or from supper to bed-time, and 
sometimes both. Swift did not love cards, though 
he played with Ppt. most days. So this evening, 
not a great while after dinner, when the parlour 
shutters were closed and the table and candles put 
out for a round game, he cried off it, and took Dr. 
Winter to his library, “to see all the money he had 
got when he was in the Ministry, "as he said. Then 
he opened some of his numerous little drawers, and 
showed a collection of antique coins, some brought 
for him by Lord Peterborough from Italy and Spain, 
others sent by Lady Mary Wortley Montague, through 
Mr. Pope. Also he exhibited certain trinkets and 
curiosities, given him by Lady Betty Germayne and 
other people of quality in London. Lastly, he brought 
forth the real attraction of his library, two long 
churchwarden pipes and a jar of tobacco. 

“Do you smoke, Winter ? ” he asked in a some- 
what shame-faced way. “If not, you must excuse 
me ; I learned to smoke at Oxford when I was a 
young man." 

“ I love a pipe very well, sir," returned Dr. Winter, 
with perfect truthfulness, and began to fill a church- 
warden from the jar, as one who well knew how. 
But in so doing he sprinkled some tobacco on the 
floor. Swift was on his knees in a minute, carefully 
sweeping it up. 

“Pray take care, sir, or Mrs. — Mrs. Brent will 
think us sad sluts. Mrs. Johnson always tells me 
’tis very dirty and disgusting to one’s neighbours to 
smoke, and not at all becoming to a dignitary of the 
Church ; but I say if I mayn’t smoke as I’m a Dean, 

I may as I’m a man of letters and an Oxford man. 
All Oxford men smoke. " 

Swift had for so many years dwelt with pleasure 
on his connection with Oxford, that he had almost 
come to believe he had received part of his education 
there, though in truth he had only been presented 
with a degree by the University, through the interest 
of Sir William Temple. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


293 

So they sat down on each side of the fire and began 
to talk. And first they fell into a dispute which was 
already an old one between them, on the subject of 
the Bank of Ireland — a proposed institution which 
Swift had combated with but too much success. Mr. 
Winter, being a young man, was instinctively in 
sympathy with the spirit of commercial enterprise 
which was the most important characteristic of his 
generation. Having fought this battle o’er again, 
they turned to discuss the League for the exclusive 
support of Irish manufactures; and here they were 
at one. This being largely a question of dress, the 
transition was easy to the subject of Dublin ladies in 
general, and so to Miss Vanhomrigh, who, it is 
needless to say, had been among the first to join the 
League. Then Dr. Winter boldly asked the Dean to 
forward his suit with Esther. Swift made no answer, 
but started upright in his chair, took the pipe out of 
his mouth, and looked at the young man in a truly 
portentous manner. 

Dr. Winter replied to the look with dignity : “If 
you think me unworthy of your friend, Mr. Dean, I 
can but make my excuses for having broached the 
business to you. But I shall not discontinue my 
addresses to her.” 

“What’s that to me, sir?” cried Swift/leaning for- 
ward with his back to the light and poking the fire 
noisily. “ Continue them till Doomsday if ’tis your 
pleasure so to do.” 

There was a silence, and presently Dr. Winter rose, 
knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and said coldly : 

“With your leave, Mr. Dean, I will go wish good 
evening to the ladies.” 

He made his bow and would have left the room, 
but Swift caught him by the sleeve. 

“Pooh, my dear man,” he said, “will you quarrel 
with a friend about a woman ? Believe an old fellow 
that’s past these frailties, there’s not a slut in the 
world that’s worth it. I ask your pardon if I have 
treated you roughly through mere surprise and — 
admiration at your demand. Come now, sit down 
and let us talk the matter over.” 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH . 


294 

Dr. Winter consented to be mollified. 

“The truth is, sir,” continued the Dean, “Miss 
Vanhomrigh, like other persons of sense, hath a true 
philosophical disinclination for the bonds of mat- 
rimony ” Here he broke off, conscious that 

though this was a state of mind which he had been 
endeavouring for ten years to produce in her, he had 
been eminently unsuccessful in so doing, and went 
on hurriedly. “Dr. Price, who is as you are aware 
a gentleman of learning and good preferment, paid 
his addresses to her a few years since, but she would 
none of him. And Mr. Ford had a like ill-fortune 
with Mrs. Mary, before her sickness showed itself to 
be mortal.” 

“I fear, sir, poor Mrs. Mary hath but a little time 
longer in this world,” returned Dr. Winter. “Miss 
Vanhomrigh may then find a single state less agree- 
able than she supposes. I did not ask you to press 
my suit upon her immediately, but to lend me your 
influence with her as seemed most convenient.” 

“’Tis a very serious matter that you would have 
me engage in, Winter,” said he. “To assist two 
persons, for both of whom I have so great a friend- 
ship and esteem, to enter into a state I love and 
esteem so little. Yet, God knows, if ’twill in truth 
make you both content — and such instances may be 
found — God knows I would not be backward in the 
business. I’ll promise you nothing at present, noth- 
ing except to consider your wish and do the best for 
you according to my judgment. She is indeed very 
superior to the generality of her sex, and has the 
most generous spirit in the world to those she loves. 
She has also a discerning mind and some reading, 
which fits her to be the helpmeet of a scholar and a 
man of wit. Besides, her housewifery is superior to 
that of many ladies w T ho thank God aloud, when a 
suitor is by, ‘ they can make a pudden and choose a 
silk, but never could abide their book.’ Yet after all 
she’s but a woman, and Satan made her, whatever 
the Scriptures may say. Come, light another pipe, 
and let us converse on reasonable matters.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


295 


CHAPTER III. 

One day, a week after Francis Earle’s arrival, he 
and Molly were again alone together in the garden- 
parlour. Molly lay idle on her couch, and Francis 
was making a careful map, from sundry rough jot- 
tings, of the district round him in America. His life 
there was exceedingly busy, as his military and organ- 
ising talents had early made him a central figure in 
the distant colony to which he had gone, peopled as 
it was by all classes except the wealthy and educated, 
and lying on the edge of the Indian-haunted wilder- 
ness. This active and also solitary life had made 
him considerably more silent than in old days, and 
less sarcastic ; for sarcasm is a weapon that those 
who have to govern others learn to keep mostly in 
the sheath. The map did not advance quickly. At 
length he ceased from the pretence of it, and sat com- 
pletely idle, biting his pen and looking out of the 
window. Both he and Molly were silent, but prob- 
ably their thoughts were moving in the same direc- 
tion, for Swift had arrived that day with a packet of 
manuscript, and was now closeted with Esther in the 
book-room. Presently Francis rose and stood lean- 
ing on the mantelpiece. 

“Molly,” he said abruptly, “ has this,” and he 
made a gesture with his head in the direction of the 
book-room, “has this been going on the same all 
the time ? ” 

“Yes, Frank, all the time, ’’she answered sombrely, 
and their eyes met. 

“Good God,” he said, “ ’tis incredible. Ten years 
ago I thought it could not continue much longer. 
Ten years ! After all that time I return, and find here 
precisely the same — no, not the same condition of 
affairs. They were doubtful, they were singular 
then, but now the lapse of time has made them 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


296 

intolerable. ’Tis very strange, Moll ; so strange it 
appears to me like a dream. I am ready to pinch 
myself, in order to wake up a foolish, discontented 
boy in St. James' Street." 

“But, Frank," she. asked, with a sudden alteration 
of tone, “ are we not very censorious? I sometimes 
say to myself that sickness has made me too fretful 
and fanciful. Perhaps I am grown an old maid and 
object without reason to this friendship of my 
sister'^. Perhaps there is no harm in it. " 

“ No harm in it ? Molly, are you mad ? " 

“Why, what do you think of it, Frank? Tell me 
truthfully. — How does it seem to you, coming back 
to us after all this while ? ” 

He writhed a few moments in silence, then sud- 
denly turning his back on her and fixing his eyes on 
the fire, he spoke. 

“I cannot answer you, I will not. Only I beg 
you’ll not speak as though there were a doubt in 
either of our minds, or in that damned scoundrel’s 
either, that she loves him with an absorbing pas- 
sion.’’ 

“Yes," she cried, startingup with animation. “And 
there was a time too when he loved her, I am sure 
of it, and yet he would not marry her. Now he 
never will. There’s some mystery about him, Frank ; 
his the general belief, and ’tis my belief, that he is 
already married. What will become of her when I 
am gone? To be thus held off and on drives her 
into a kind of frenzy, yet should he wholly cast her 

off, and I be no more, she would I dare not 

think what she might do. Promise me you’ll make 
her clear up this business ; save her, Frank, when I 
am dead. She’s young and strong and may live 
well and happy yet, if only some one will save her. 

I ,’’ and her voice fell almost to a whisper, “ I 

am not strong enough." 

Francis pushed her gently back on to her pillows. 

“Oh, you may trust me to do what I can," he an- 
swered shortly. “ Pray now, Molly, do not be 
agitated, ’tis the worst thing in the world for one in 
your case. Where are your drops? Pm sure ’tis 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


297 

tirne you took ’em, and Essie has forgotten. Here 
— ^ ve em y°u. Essie used not to forget such 
things, ” he added, as he measured out the medicine. 

“You won’t turn away from her, Frank?” whis- 
pered Molly, looking up with an anxious fold in her 
brow, as she took the glass from his hand. 

“No, of course not,” he replied, with a pain that 
sounded like impatience ; then sitting down near her, 
he continued more gently — “Who should I turn to ? 
You and Essie and his Lordship are the only friends 
I have left in England, and out there are honest 
folks in plenty, but all rough, unlearned men. I wrote 
you of the Scotchman the Indians killed. That was 
the only friend I’ve made these ten years, Moll.” 

“ Poor Frank ! You seem very lonely.” 

“Lord! I don’t say that to complain. I’ve 
plenty to busy me without repining, and am glad 
enough not to be a beggarly parson or usher, as I 
was once like to have been. What I would say is 
that, gratitude apart, I were less than human did I 
not value you and Essie.” 

Had he told Molly that he truly loved her sister, 
that all his hopes of private happiness, apart from the 
satisfaction he had in his busy adventurous life, hung 
upon the possibility of Essie’s consenting to share 
that life with him — had he told Molly this, it would 
have greatly lightened the load of anxiety upon her 
mind in leaving her sister without the shelter and 
support of her own love. But an incurable habit of 
reticence in matters of feeling prevented his doing 
so. 

“ I never doubted your friendship, Frank,” returned 
Molly. “You show it by risking your neck here on 
our account.” 

“ Pooh, Moll ! I do nothing of the sort.” 

“Well, you’ll let me believe so, I hope, if ’twill 
make me easier in leaving Essie to your care.” 

Presently Esther came in, transformed from the 
hollow-eyed phantom of yesterday to a young bloom- 
ing handsome woman. Swift followed close on her, 
he also looking bright and well-pleased. The passion 
and reproach that burst forth in her letters to him 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


298 

never found distinct expression in his presence, partly 
because the awe of it controlled her, partly because 
she was happy when he was there. Consequently, 
though he might increasingly avoid her company, 
once in it, the old attraction re-asserted itself. They 
had both had a pleasant afternoon. She had sat on 
her favourite stool close to his elbow chair, and they 
had talked about old times : Kensington, Windsor, 
St. James’ Street, and the rest — old times in England, 
for he did not love to talk of those first two years of 
her stay in Ireland, to which he perhaps alluded 
when in his plan for the second part of “ Cadenusand 
Vanessa,” he put down “Two hundred chapters of 
madness. ” Then they had read over a new voyage of 
Gulliver’s, superintended some reforms in the king- 
dom of Brobdignag, and deplored the miseries of the 
kingdom of Ireland — that poor, oppressed Ireland, to 
which, as Esther told him, he had been sent by a 
discerning and beneficent Providence. Esther came 
in carrying a plate. 

“Here is an orange ready dressed for Molly,” she 
said, “and if Frank is good, she will give him a bit.” 

“He had better be merely tyrannical, and exact 
it as tribute,” said Swift. “This is how I have 
obtained the best bits from fine ladies for the last 
twenty years.” 

“Molly, your drops ! ” cried Esther. 

“Don’t trouble yourself, Hess,” returned Frank, 
drily. “I gave her them. You were wont to keep 
a memory once.” 

Essie blushed. 

“I see you are determined to declare yourself to 
the Dean,” she said. “ I was just telling him your 
tongue was so disguised your best friends did not 
know it again.” 

Frank had darted into a corner for a lacquer table 
that usually stood at Molly’s side, and made no 
answer. 

“I wish, sir,” said Swift with stately politeness, 
“you had returned to us from the East instead of 
from the West; for in that case you could tell these 
ladies with all the authority I lack, that theirs is the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


2 99 

best coffee and conversation in the world. You might 
persuade ’em not to hide such fine things in such a 
hole as Cellbridge. But I imagine after an American 
wilderness you find this a complete Paradise.” 

“Oh, complete — even to the serpent,” returned 
Francis, and bit his lip ; for he was annoyed to find 
himself suddenly transformed once more to the insig- 
nificant youth of ten years ago, avenging his own 
insignificance by unobserved repartees. He would 
have thought that impossible, but there he was, the 
old Francis, and there was the old Great Man, more 
superb and more invulnerable than ever. 

Francis did not remain very long at Cellbridge. 
The Vanhomrighs had hastily got rid of Anna Stone, 
but both they and Francis had plenty of other cousins 
in Dublin, and it was at once difficult to explain and 
not to explain his presence and his identity. Besides, 
he had to visit Lord Peterborough and give an account 
of his American stewardship. He was, however, to 
return. Molly had one of her wonderful rallies before 
he went, and it was owing to this, as well as to their 
common dislike of farewell scenes, that she and Fran- 
cis were able to pretend he would find her still there on 
his return. Then in a few days she was worse than 
ever. Esther was compelled to acknowledge that 
Molly must die, and at moments as she supported 
the wasted little frame, herself tortured to the height 
of endurance by every pang it suffered, she could 
have welcomed any end to the struggle. Then again 
succeeded to that a desperate determination. Molly 
should not die yet, should not be allowed to let go 
her hold of life so soon. There is so much in having 
the will to live. 

It was several nights since Esther had gone to bed, 
and she had quite left off being sleepy. AH the house 
was quiet, for it was long after midnight. She sat 
idle on a stool by the fire, below the small shaded 
night-lamp, .which did not give enough light to read 
by. From without came the ceaseless rushing of the 
Liffey, and from time to time the noise of a gusty 
wind that tossed the trees and passed seawards. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


300 

Either because her eyes were accustomed to the twi- 
light, or owing to the overstrained sensitive state of 
her nerves, Molly’s profile, lying against the pillow, 
was as distinctly visible to her as though it had 
been in the fullest light. She saw but too clearly 
the sharpened nose, the lips straightened by the ha- 
bitual endurance of pain, the hollow cheek and the 
hair swept off from her face and lying above her on 
the pillow, thin and streaked with premature grey. 
Esther closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the 
face of the old Molly, the Molly of St. James’ Street ; 
but she could not do so with any definiteness. She 
could remember dresses she had worn, could remem- 
ber vaguely the prettiness and brightness of her ap- 
pearance, but the lineaments of the dear face that 
had once been always under her eyes were gone 
past recall. Only she knew they had been other 
than those she saw before her. Then with a sharp 
pang it came to her that in a very short time, most 
likely even by that day next week, this same, yet 
other, dear face would be lying in the dark solitary 
grave, hidden from her for ever, and she would be 
here sitting perhaps just where she sat now, and try- 
ing impotently to recall it. She rose, and slipping 
off her shoes lest the heels should make a noise, 
went and leaned on the footboard of the bed, looking 
intently at her sister, and trying to impress the worn 
sleeping face upon her memory. In a few minutes 
Molly suddenly opened her eyes and met Esther’s. 

“Yes,” she said, as though she were answering to 
a call. Esther held up her finger for “ Hush,” and 
would have stolen back to her place, but Molly in a 
stronger voice than she had lately found bade her 
stay where she was. It was now Molly whose eyes 
were fixed upon Esther, while she leaned there at the 
bed’s foot, with her chin on her hands, sometimes 
glancing at her sister, oftener staring at the pat- 
terns on the embroidered coverlet and listening to 
the sound of the river and the fitful wind outside. 
Was it only — it must be only a fancy that there was 
something of sternness and reproach in those wide 
bright eyes opposite her. She spoke to dispel it. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


301 


“Go to sleep, Molly.” 

“Ah, I wish I could,” returned Molly; “but I 
can’t. How can I sleep when you won’t promise 
me anything ? ” 

“What should I promise?” asked Esther, starting 
and turning pale. 

“You know very well, but you won’t do it,” re- 
plied Molly, and closed her eyes with a weary 
pettish sigh. 

Esther leaned forward, clasping her hands : 

“What, my darling?” she asked in an eager whis- 
per ; Molly opened her eyes again. 

“Find out whether he’s married,” she asked in a 
clear, almost loud voice. 

“ I will, I will ; I promise you,” cried Esther 
impulsively. 

Molly smiled. She knew she could rely upon her 
sister’s word. When the promise had escaped 
Esther’s lips, she realised to what she had committed 
herself, but she dared not withdraw it. She almost 
staggered to a chair by the bedside and buried her 
face in the coverlet. Her crisp curly hair, blond 
still, if a shade darker than of old, -was loosened for 
the night and fell in a thick cloud about her neck. 
Molly plunged her hand into it. 

“I love to feel real hair sometimes. I believe, 
Hess, you have a finer head of it than ever. As for 
mine, ’tis a handful of dry hay, only as grey as a 
badger’s.” 

“’Tis no matter,” replied Essie, lifting her head. 
“Sure your friends do not regard any losses to your 
head, so long as its wits are not lost.” 

“But they are,” returned Molly; “and that is no 
matter either.” 

“Pray do not talk, Molly. You promised to 
sleep.” 

“I did nothing of the sort, miss, but I will sleep 
presently, when I have talked a bit. ” 

“The Doctor forbade you to talk, Molly.” 

Molly smiled her old mocking smile. 

“Why, my dear? Because I should die the 
sooner ? Did ever such a trifle as the fear of death 


302 


ESTHER VANIIOMRIGH. 


make a woman hold her tongue ? I mean not to 
disgrace my sex but to die talking, in spite of all the 
doctors in the universe/' 

“ Hush ! I shall not answer." 

“Do, my dear; you must. In sober truth, Essie, 
what is the use of being alive, if I may not com- 
municate with you ? 'Tis a foolish price at which 
to buy a few more hours of breath." 

Esther made no reply, not because she was resolved 
to be silent, but because she seemed to have nothing 
to say. One fact had possession of her mind, 
insistently pressing for a recognition of its reality, 
which she was but slowly yielding it. The fact that 
very soon Molly would be gone, and she would never 
have her again. A very young person would not have 
realised it at all, but Esther had lived long enough to 
know the meaning of the word “never." She shed 
no tears, there would be plenty of time for tears after- 
wards ; she sat looking at Molly and holding her hand. 

“ How I hate the Liffey ! " cried Molly, after a pause. 
“When I was a little girl and lay awake here at 
night, I used to like to hear it ; it seemed like some- 
body there. I used to like to think of it, rushing 
along to Dublin all night, just the same as in the day. 
Now I protest I sometimes fancy 'tis the death of me. 
If I get through this bout, Hess, will you come to the 
Bath next spring? I believe you have used up all 
your excuses for not coming ; besides, husbanding my 
fortune so well as we do, I may go in spite of your 
teeth." 

“I will go anywhere you choose, Moll, from 
America to Constantinople. " 

“Obliging girl! ” returned Molly with a bright 
smile. “Ah, you don’t perceive I am better, but I 
am. Yet I won’t be malicious, but will take you no 
further than London." 

“O, not London!" cried Esther, forgetting for a 
moment that all this was but fancy. 

“Yes, certainly London ! Dear, chamingr London ! 
; Tis mighty perverse of you to have such a spite 
against it. Sure if we spent some-unpleasant months 
there, we spent many more pleasant ones. O Hess, I 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


303 

should love to walk in the Mall again, some fine spring 
day about noon ! ’T would be like old times, yet so 
diverting to see the new modes and the reigning toasts, 
that was brats in the nursery when you and I was in 
their shoes. Sure I trust their gallants have found 
some new oaths, for the old ones was very stale even 
in our day.” 

“They were good enough to break, and no doubt 
serve the same purpose well enough still.” 

“I dare say we should look pretty odd, in our 
Dublin modes, if we were to walk among ’em. Frank 
must be in London by now, but he will observe noth- 
ing. If I were not so much better to-night, I should 
ask you to be sure and tell Frank what a regard I 
have for him. But I shall get over this and see him 
again, and wish to tell him myself, and — certainly 
not be able to do so. I believe some malicious fairy 
stood godmother to him, and ordained that he should 
be full of amiable feelings and forbidden to express 
them, or to listen to any such feelings expressed to 
him by others. I find the spell work, powerfully 
against me when I would show him kindness.” 

“It can be of no consequence, Molly, since he is 
as perfectly sensible of our sincere friendship for him 
as we are of his for us. You and I, my dear, don’t 
often protest our attachment to each other. ” 

“No, Essie, no, my dear love; not often — only 
sometimes. To-night for instance. Come and lie 
on the bed here by me, and kiss me good-night. ” 

The bed was a large one in which they were accus- 
tomed to sleep together, and Esther did as she was 
bidden to do. Molly put a thin little arm around her 
sister’s neck. 

“I have always loved you, every minute of my 
life, Hess,” she said. “Good-night.” 

They kissed each other, and when Molly was 
asleep, Esther too fell suddenly into the deep slumber 
of exhaustion. 

It was morning before old Ann came in to relieve 
Esther’s watch. In the grey early light she saw the 
two sisters lying on the bed, and at first thought them 
both asleep ; but when she looked nearer she saw 
that Molly was dead. 


304 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Condolences and congratulations are both, for ob- 
vious reasons, apt to fall short of the mark or to over- 
shoot it. Many kind-hearted people came and sat 
round Miss Vanhomrigh’s parlour, clothed in their 
decent black, and tried not to appreciate too keenly 
the excellence of her cake and wine, while they 
expressed their sincere sorrow at her bereavement. 
But in great loves, as in great thoughts or deeds, men 
and women must usually accept their solitude. It is 
only a minority who are capable of such, and of 
these again only a minority light on the individuals 
that have power to sound the depths of their emotions. 
Had Molly been Ginckel in female form, though in 
that form his follies could never have risen to the 
height of crimes, yet it is certain that the loss sustained 
by Miss Vanhomrigh could have been readily appraised 
by every cousin in Dublin. As it was, her proud and 
solitary spirit, rendered solitary partly by the “long 
disease ” of another and less benignant love, shrunk 
morbidly from the kind if superficial sympathy shown 
by her circle of acquaintances. There was one, only 
one, among them who knew just how and why she 
sorrowed. It was no selfish imprudence that brought 
Swift to Cellbridge oftener than usual that summer. 
He who was always prompt to succour and comfort 
the afflicted, wherever he found them, could not have 
turned his back upon the grief of his “little Hesskin ; ” 
especially since it was a grief in which he claimed a 
share. Moll had been in his eyes “a girl of infinite 
value,” as he had said in that quick note with which 
he had answered the announcement of her death, 
saying no more than that, except that he could give 
no comfort to Essie, for he himself wanted comfort. 
This partial renewal of the old companionship would 
have been pure happiness to Swift, had he not been 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


305 


more alive to its danger than 'before. In the course 
of the journeys which he took in July and August, 
the long lonely rides and the many wet days in-doors, 
he thought much and anxiously of Missessy. . He had 
not been many days back in Dublin before he rode 
over to Cellbridge, but instead of turning to the left 
when he had crossed the bridge over the Liffey, he 
turned to the right and trotted up the village street, 
towards the gates of the big brand-new house in which 
the Conollys were just installing themselves. He 
found Mrs. Conolly in her great pillared hall, wash- 
ing her most cherished pieces of china before putting 
them into a glass cupboard, while a young man in 
shirt-sleeves sat on the top of a ladder, polishing a 
bit of old armour which was to be hung upon the 
wall. Mrs. Conolly was enjoying all the delights of 
thoroughly arranging her house, even to that of be- 
ing tired — which was quite an experience to her — and 
welcomed her visitor with her usual stately geniality, 
untempered by the least feeling that he was inop- 
portune. 

“ I would not, sir, be so superfluous as to present 
to you my guest, Mr. Mordaunt,” she said, “but 
that you can scarcely have expected to meet him 
here — or there, ” glancing up the ladder with a smile. 

“Mordaunt?” repeated Swift, puzzled for a mo- 
ment ; then — “ O, ay, to be sure,” and he bowed to 
the former Mr. Earle, who, returning the bow some- 
what awkwardly from his perch, made haste to 
descend. 

“I have had the honour to know another Mor- 
daunt these dozen years, sir,” continued Swift, “and 
was never yet surprised to see him anywhere, except 
where I might have naturally expected to see him. 
You resemble him, Mr. Mordaunt. But in this case 
I understood from Miss Vanhomrigh that ‘Mrs. Con- 
olly had hospitably received you.” 

“Ay, and So have received something better than 
an angel unawares — a handy man,” said Mrs. Con- 
olly. “If the compliment were great enough, I would 
say Mr. Mordaunt was the handiest man in Dublin.” 

Francis, who was now in his coat, made Madam 
20 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


306 

Conolly a low bow ; for at Lord Peterborough's he 
had been at some pains to rub the rust of the 
Plantations off his manners. 

“Madam,” he replied, “I may earn my salt, but 
can never do enough to earn your most obliging 
hospitality. If it had been offered for my own sake, 
I trust I should not have had the conscience to accept 
of it.” 

He was thinking to himself : “ So here is the cause 
of Essie’s determination not to stay dinner.” 

“ Miss Vanhomrigh has but just left us. I wonder 
you did not meet' her,” said Mrs. Conolly addressing 
the Dean. 

“I love to muse when I ride, and may have 
passed without observing her,” he answered. 

This assumption of indifference was perhaps mere 
diplomacy on Swift’s part, but it irritated Francis 
just sufficiently to make him carry out at once 
a resolution he had formed before returning to 
Ireland. 

“What, Mr. Dean, in the street of Cellbridge ? ” he 
asked with an ironic smile. “Why, at this time of 
day you can’t but observe a mongrel cur should it 
chance to walk there. Miss Vanhomrigh must be 
still in the park. Let us go find her, sir, for I 
believe we can do nothing so civil to Mrs. Conolly 
as to rid her of our company.” 

Mrs. Conolly made a faint attempt to detain them, 
but seeing that, for some reason she did not under- 
stand, Mr. Mordaunt wished to be alone with the 
Dean, she let them go, with an admonition to be 
back for dinner. Swift’s first quick impulse was one 
of revolt against the kind of force which this young 
man was daring to put on his movements, but he 
quickly conquered it. He asked himself whether he 
was or was not truly solicitous for Missessy’s wel- 
fare, and willing also to share with another his own 
difficult unauthorized responsibility for her. As he 
silently descended the steps from the front door he took 
off his hat, as though to cool his brow, heated with 
riding ; but in fact he was breathing a short habitual 
prayer, that he might be enabled to govern his fierce 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


307 

and haughty temper, and conduct himself as a 
Christian man. It was the more necessary because 
he was conscious of something unfriendly, resistant 
to his power in Essie's cousin, 4 * little Master," as 
he was used to call him. 

“ Well, sir ? ” he said, replacing his hat, “ I presume 
you have somewhat to say to me." 

“I have, ” returned Francis slowly, combating an 
inclination to be afraid. “Will you walk towards 
the river, sir ? ” 

“ Wherever you please, young gentleman." 

So they paced side by side. Before them sparkled 
a curve of the Liffey, its border of burdocks and 
rushes showing green against the yellow August 
meadows beyond, where the cattle lay chewing the 
cud in the broad sunshine. Behind rose the blue 
broken ridge of the Dublin mountains. 

“You can doubtless guess, sir," said Francis 
after a pause, “the reasons that have prevented my 
visiting Cellbridge earlier in the year." 

“ I imagine you, Mr. Mordaunt, to be of necessity 
very much governed by Lord Peterborough's wishes. 
Besides, you have very just reasons for avoiding the 
eyes of your kinsmen in Dublin." 

“You are right, Mr. Dean ; yet those were not 
altogether my reasons for staying away till Mrs. 
Conolly was able, as she was before very obligingly 
willing, to receive me." 

“ No ? " returned Swift, seating himself on the 
stump of a large felled tree, whilst Francis leaned 
against the bole. 

“ I earnestly desired to come to my Cousin Van- 
homrigh s from the moment I found her to be left 
alone, sir, but in her solitary condition we feared 
my presence in her house would give rise to a 
scandal." 

“So it would, sir, so it would." 

“Yet if I am not her nearest male relation, I am 
the one on whom she naturally most depends, and 
who have the best right to take on me the office of a 
brother. " 

“A man of sense, sir, will perceive the absurdity 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH 


308 

of your situation, but men of sense are so few tis 
useless to consider ’em. I counsel you to remain 
with Mrs. Conolly.” 

“You mistake my meaning, Mr. Dean,” replied 
Francis with a shade of impatience. “ ’Tis one more 
personal to yourself. I would say, that I hold my- 
self excused from impertinence in asking you, sir, to 
do your best endeavours to persuade my cousin not 
to continue in this solitary condition.” 

“I have several times entreated her to take a 
female cousin to live with her,” returned Swift, also 
somewhat impatiently. 

“Impossible!” ejaculated Francis, with heartfelt 
sincerity, for he was better acquainted with the family 
than was Swift. “No, she must quit this place.” 

“She must quit this island,” cried Swift ; “I have 
told her so. Yet whither shall she go ? ” 

“To her Cousin Purvis at Twickenham.” 

“What? To a bed-ridden old woman, most like 
in her dotage ? ” asked the Dean with a grimace. 
“Sure poor Miss Essie has had her fill of nurse- 
tending.” 

“You have the means to make her choose it, sir 
— at least to influence her choice,” Francis corrected 
himself hastily. 

“ How so, young gentleman ? ” 

“By solemnly declaring to her on your word of 
honour, Mr. Dean, that this is the last visit she shall 
receive from you while she continues in this place.” 
It was spoken significantly, and Swift gave an exclama- 
tion of anger, which he however instantly repressed, 
and in a few minutes spoke with cold stubbornness. 
For he was not going to be hurried into resolutions 
by this jackanapes. 

“You would have me take singular and discourt- 
eous means to persuade Miss Vanhomrigh to a life 
very disgusting to a young woman. No, sir, I cannot 
promise you to do that. ” 

“ But if the alternative were marriage, what would 
you do ? ” questioned Francis, with a kind of reluctant 
deliberateness. It was detestably like asking his wife 
at the hands of a rival, but he endeavoured to console 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


309 


himself by the consciousness that his real object was 
tQ force an explanation between Swift and Esther. 

“That, Mr. Mordaunt, is a question which I have 
already had before me ,” returned the Dean gravely. 
“There are few persons I should counsel to marry* 
but taking into consideration Miss Vanhomrigh’s sol- 
itary condition and her fortune, I believe it would be 
for her happiness to marry a man she could esteem 
and reasonably like.” 

“ I may trust you to counsel her in that sense, sir ? ” 

“You may, sir.” 

“ And yet, Mr. Dean,” Francis broke out with irre- 
pressible bitterness, “ it is certain such a man would 
scarcely think St. George’s Channel a sufficient barrier 
between you and his wife.” 

Swift flushed haughtily and for a moment lifted his 
awful look to his opponent’s frowning face; then re- 
membering his resolution, he spoke more gently than 
before. 

“I forgive your reflections on me, sir, for you are 
still young, and the young are often censorious — 
they are also sometimes mistaken. At all events 
the gentleman to whom I would point is my very 
particular friend and hath already asked my good 
offices in the matter. I have not moved in it till now, 
as I thought it indecent to speak of marrying and 
giving in marriage with your cousin Mary so lately 
dead, but as you are naturally anxious to see Miss 
Vanhomrigh’s affairs settled before you go back to 
America, I will press the matter on.” 

Francis’ love was as unselfish as a woman’s, and 
with a little time in which to consider it, he could 
have reconciled himself to anything that was for 
Esther’s happiness ; but the unexpected manner in 
which Swift had sprung the new rival upon him was 
too much for the old Adam within him. He turned 
a shade pale and gripped a knot in the fallen bole on 
which his hand rested. 

“ Who is this man ? ” he asked. 

“That is my secret, sir,” returned Swift, smiling. 
“ Yet I do not mind telling you he is a scholar and a 
gentleman, not without some modest means of his 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


310 

own and certain of good preferment — for he is in 
orders/’ 

“ I might have guessed as much,” returned Francis 
with a short laugh; “who but a parson would 
have ” 

He was going to say “asked your intercession,” 
but it struck him that he himself had gone perilously 
near doing so. 

“Would have — what, sir?” asked Swift drily. 

“Could possibly find favour in Miss Vanhomrigh’s 
eyes. She has a singular liking for parsons. ” 

“ That was not what you meant to say, Mr. Mor- 
daunt,” replied Swift smiling and rising from his seat. 
“Perhaps you meant Miss Vanhomrigh was destined 
to have none but parsons for h^ r lovers. But she has 
now a fortune to attract more dangerous admirers.” 

“That was not my meaning, Mr. Dean,” rejoined 
Francis, following him as he walked slowly along 
the river-bank. “Gad! 'tis not only parsons that 
know how to value Miss Vanhomrigh. As to common 
fortune-hunters, IT1 trust her discretion not to be 
chasted by ’em.” 

“Faith, young gentleman,” said the Dean looking 
round at Francis with a not unkindly but melancholy 
smile, “you play your part < t the brother somewhat 
too hotly. Are you in love with Miss Essie?” 

He kept his eyes fixed on the young man with a 
still mild but penetrating and authoritative look, and 
Francis reddening, answered slowly, as though the 
words were drawn out of him by some magnetic 
force rather than voluntarily uttered. 

“I cannot tell; but 1 shall esteem myself very 
happy if I can win her for my wife/* 

“And being her husband/ rejoined Swift, “pur- 
pose to be jealous oi an old sick deaf parson that she 
hath had a kindness for. Pshaw, my poor lad ! 
You are in love. Why do you protest ‘you cannot 
tell ' if it be so ? ” 

“Because,” answered Francis with a vehemence 
born of anger and confusion at having betrayed to 
an enemy a secret never ninted to a friend, “because 
I cannot. If to be in love means to be willing to do 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


311 

any injury to a lady, and cause every ill report of her 
rather than give up the enjoyment of her company, 
why then, M Dean, I for one am not in love.” 

“ Neither am I, sir,” replied Swift readily, suspecting 
Francis of shooting random shots at him, but honestly 
convinced there was no weak place in his conscience 
where they could stick, “and am heartily with you 
in thinking scorn of the tender passion. But women, 
you know, like it, and therefore I will not flatter you, 
Mr. Mordaunt, by affirming that Miss Vanhomrigh 

will prefer your reasonable liking to Dr. my 

young friend's warmer sentiments. Besides, 'tis a 
great matter for a lady to travel across the ocean, and 
perhaps one dark night lose her fine head of hair by 
some wild Indian's scalping-knife.’’ 

“ I dare assure you, Mr. Dean, our Plantations 
have been as well cleared of wild Indians as Cell- 
bridge of wild Irish,” returned Francis proudly. 
“But 'twas far from my desire to speak of my own 
affairs. I was but desirous to know whether Miss 
Vanhomrigh's friends would have your support in 
urging her to leave Ireland.” 

“I have been the first to do so,” Swift answered, 
“and shall continue my endeavours; unless indeed 
I can prevail with her to make the marriage 1 told 
you of, and which I must honestly say seems to me 
the most suitable one which offers. But here comes 
Tom Conolly. Let us go and meet him.” 

Their host came out of a wood a little ahead ot 
them, with a gun on his shoulder, a brace of birds 
in his hand, and a golden-Drown setter- at his heels. 
He greeted the Dean from a distance heartily, not to 
say uproariously, and the two were soon in lively 
conversation on the dog's breed ; for Swift took an 
interest in everything, and consequently knew a 
little about most things. 

Swift stayed to dinner at the Conoliys, but left the 
dining-parlour with Mrs. Conolly, alleging the in- 
compatibility of his temperate habits with his host’s. 

“ Moreover,” he said as he ciosed the door behind 
him, “I must go make my howdees to poor Miss 
Van, Will you not walk to the village with me. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


3 12 

madam ? The sun begins to strike less warm, and 
the air to-day is light and wholesome.” 

Madam Conolly assented, and as they strolled 
along the grass beside the carriage- road, he ques- 
tioned her straitly about Dr. Winter and his courtship, 
to hear that, though persistent, it had so far ended in 
nothing. 

“Well, at any rate you will not allow the savage 
to carry her off to his wigwam, will you, Madam 
Conolly? Heavens! I shudder to think of anything 
so valuable as Miss Essie exposed to the accidents of 
the American wilderness.” 

“Savage, Mr. Dean? What do you mean? Oh, 
Mr. Mordaunt. I deny him to be a savage, but no 
matter. He is not a lover of Miss Vanhorririgh’s nor 
of any one else’s, I should imagine.” 

“No, nor ever will be, ” returned Swift with incon- 
sistent disgust. “He may be built like London 
Bridge, of wood and stone or of iron and steel, for all 
I know. Yet he must furnish his wigwam like other 
folks. Find him a squaw for it quick, Madam 
Conolly, a red-headed Irishwoman that will carry 
piccaninnies on her back as naturally as a peat-basket. 
Don’t let him carry off Miss Essie.” 

And he would say no more about it. 

“I knew you would come,” cried Esther, while 
Swift was still coming along the garden path. “ See, 
everything is in readiness.” 

She stood under a beech -tree on the river bank, 
leaning on a spade, and pointed to a young laurel 
in a wheelbarrow at her side. It had long been 
Vanessa’s custom to plant a laurel every time her 
Cadenus came to honour her summer bower by the 
Liffey, and there was quite a grove of them now 
between the garden path and the river. 

“What a pit have you digged ! ” said Swift, stand- 
ing on the path ; “I can’t imagine, Missessy, how 
you that’s a model of indolence when I would have 
you walk or ride for your health’s sake, can delve 
like Cain — or Abel, was it? It may have been Satan 
for aught you care — for the better comfort of a vege- 
table.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


313 

“A body must value himself much more than I can 
that ’ll run three times upstairs for his lungs, and as 
many down for his liver, jog along the Strand and 
back for his head and spend an hour in tedious com- 
pany for his spleen. That’s you, Mr. Dean.” 

And she laughed a clear girlish laugh that showed 
her white teeth as she flung aside her leather gloves 
and came towards him through the dappled shadows 
of the trees. 

“Yet ’tis fortunate forme you choose to ride for 
your head’s sake, else should I see you the seldomer. 
How glad I am to see you, Cadenus ! ” 

She stretched out her two hands to him, and he 
kissed one beautiful hand somewhat lingeringly. It 
was a little hard that just to-day her cheek must bloom 
as delicately, her hair and eyes shine as brightly, as 
ten years ago in Windsor Park. 

“No, child, ” he said, ‘ * but if there were not reasons 
against it you would see me oftener.” 

“I knew you were coming to-day. I often think 
you are coming — -’tis all I have to think of now. But 
to-day I felt such a certainty of happiness that even 
Cadenus had not the heart to disappoint me.” 

“You know how your friend spends his days, Essie. 
Cathedral services and Chapters, beggars and tenants, 
and all the rest of the scoundrel rout of the Liberties 
round his neck, public affairs and printers plucking at 
his gown, and now, though he says it that shouldn’t, 
half Dublin hat in hand to him, and even the Castle 
bidding for his support and fain to soothe his resent- 
ment. ” 

They had turned and were strolling side by side 
along the familiar path to the bower. 

“I know,” she returned. “’Tis not my judgment 
that complains, ’tis my heart that cannot always avoid 
it. But there’s no one so proud and rejoiced as I to 
see the world fast coming to its place, at your feet. 
Even your enemies acknowledge you for a great man 
now, Cadenus.” 

They reached the narrow ancient foot-bridge, by 
which on many pleasant summer days like this they 
two had crossed the river, and passing through the 


314 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


picturesque ivied gateway, high on its worn stone 
steps, turned their sauntering feet by the shady bank 
towards the bower. Swift did not care for the pictu- 
resque, but it came into his head, as he wrenched 
open the rusty iron gate, to wonder how soon “ the 
Bridge and the Bower ” would be but another of those 
scenes in the Masque of Memory, which would often 
pass before his mental vision in the enforced leisure of 
his long journeys on horseback. He came down the 
steps slowly, with bent head, while Essie watched 
him from below, radiant with joy and pride. For she 
was schooling herself to be content with the glimpses 
of happiness that his brief visits brought her, and ex- 
isting from one to the other in a state of quiescence, 
something like a hibernating animal. She was no 
longer actively miserable, only not quite alive unless 
he was there or had written. 

“Lord, how my wits do go a-wool-gathering ! ” 
said Swift at length. “ What was we talking of ? Oh, 
of what a great man I am grown, to be sure. Ay, 
’tis true I have even more sincere admirers than 
when ’twas thought I had my hand in the Lord 
Treasurer’s pocket. What of that, little Hess ? ’Tis 
a foolish world that thinks scorn of us when we are 
yet in the flower of our genius, and waits till we're 
chap-fallen dotards to do us honour. Why, I was 
worthy of much more honour thirty years since, my 
dear, and would have repaid it with a general bene- 
volence, but now the world has too long turned its 
ragged back on me to make me forget that by this 
display of its gold-laced waistcoat. But I did not 
come hither to talk of myself. Why do you always 
make me talk of myself, Sirrah Hess ? ” 

“Because ’tis so engaging a theme, Cadenus. I 
am not thoroughly acquainted with you yet, and may 
meet any day with Cadenus the iooth, the one I 
have not seen. I hope he is an agreeable fellow, 
and not at all terrible.” 

“Silly ! Silly, I say ! I did not come to talk about 
myself, and I’ll not do’t. ’Tis of you I would be 
talking.” 

“ No, no ! ” she cried hastily. “That were to talk 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


315 

of siark naught, or, worse still, of the spleen. You 
tell me you take infinite pains to fly the spleen and 
be merry. That's what I shall try to do to-day. 
We’ll have coffee in the bower.” 

And she hummed to some tune of her own — 

“ A fig for partridges and quails, 

Ye dainties, I know nothing of ye, 

But on the highest mount in Wales 
Would rather choose to drink my coffee.” 

Swift smiled, recognising his own doggerel. Es- 
ther’s favourite haunt, which she called the bower, 
was hollowed out in the steep rocky bank of 
the Liffey, reached by rough steps and furnished 
only with a stone seat. It was roofed by the spread- 
ing lower boughs of a stunted oak, and to the steep 
bank on either side clung a thicket of thorn-bushes, 
dipping their own branches and the trails of dark ivy 
with which they were overgrown into the rushing 
water below. For the bed of the river fell somewhat 
steeply here, and broke the full stream into tiny cata- 
racts, that sent it yet more swiftly rushing on its way. 
It swirled giddily below the bower, in a narrow 
channel between the rocky banks and a small island. 
The willows of the island almost shut out the view 
of the sloping opposite shore, but to the right of them 
there was just visible a breadth of bluer stiller water, 
and a thicket of emerald green burdock-leaves and 
rushes and pink willow-herb and yellow ragwort, 
bright above in the sunshine, and almost brighter in 
their tremulous reflections below. 

They sat down on the stone bench, where a book 
or two lay awaiting them, but did not read. Essie, 
who had thrust loosely into her black kerchief a 
spray of white roses and a few crimson carnations, 
took them out, smelt them, and then arranged them 
more firmly in her bosom. Then leaning forward 
with her hands clasped round one knee, she looked 
at Swift. 

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said. 

“I was thinking,” he returned, “ how romantic a 
bower is he-re, and that ’tis pity its romantic nymph 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


316 

should have no shepherd to bring hither but one that 
would make an owl laugh. I am in hopes you may 
have been here with Dr. Winter, since I introduced 
him to the place. Come, you sly girl, have not you 
and he visited it since ? ” 

“Why, no, Cadenus, nor was I best pleased at 
your bringing him to it.” 

“ But he has been often here, Miss Essie. For 
that I’ll vouch.” 

“ He visited me at one time pretty often, usually 
with Madam Conolly, but of late I — I do not see 
him.” 

“You blush, sirrah. What’s this? You’ll not see 
him because you begin to perceive he is paying you 
his addresses ? ” 

“Madam Conolly would have me to believe so, 
sir, but I cannot tell ; we females are apt to be too 
hasty in such matters. Yet sure if the tale runs that 
way at tea-tables, I were best avoid the gentleman.” 

“Lord, what a coil about a poor honest gentleman 
that pays you his addresses ! Faith, Miss Essie, this 
is not kind to our good Winter, to treat him like a 
rake. ” 

“Sure, Cadenus, you would not have me a coquette. 
If he do not value me my conduct can signify little 
to him, but if he should have a particular regard for 
me, why — you see I’ll not credit him with a belle 
passion for the beaux yeux de ma cassette — why, then, 
am I not kind to your friend? ” 

Esther was looking at the point of her own foot as 
she spoke. Had she been looking at Swift she would 
have observed a certain hardening of his expression, 
as he hardened his heart to carry out the resolution 
he had already made, in which his conversation with 
Francis had confirmed him. 

“By no means. You are unkind to Winter and, 
what more nearly affects me, you are unkind to your- 
self, miss. Yes, you are vastly ill-judged. Why 
will you not marry Dr. Winter ? ” 

Esther loosed her hands from her knee. 

“Do not jest this way, Cadenus,” she said. 

“I do not jest,” he replied almost sternly. “I 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


3 17 

speak to you as a father or a brother would do, whose 
affairs called him away from you. I advise you to 
accept an offer of marriage from this excellent young 
man, should he still purpose making you one.” 

Esther rose to her feet slowly. Her cheeks and 
lips were pale. 

“You — you — seriously advise me to marry Dr. 
Winter? ” she stammered, looking at him. 

“Indeed, Missessy, I very earnestly advise you to 
do so ! ” 

She started away the few steps that divided the 
stone seat from the edge of the rock, and stood there 
with her back turned to him, her left hand clasping 
the horizontal branch of a thorn-tree, while her right 
picked a few ivy-leaves off it one by one. 

“This is another guess matter from Dr. Price’s 
business,” he continued after a pause. “Price was 
not to be compared to Winter, either in his genius or 
in his person. Besides, that was some years back. 
And pardon my candour, Hesskinage, though Cade- 
nus wears a pair of spectacles that make Vanessa to 
him everlastingly twenty, the world begins to accuse 
her of being an old maid.” 

Esther, still leaning on the tree, turned towards 
him. 

“ And yet,” she said in a low voice, answering his 
earlier remark, “I have never concealed that I love 
you.” 

“ You write me a deal of nonsense, when you are 
splenetic, Missessy, but I value it not a penny. ’Tis 
true, as you once wrote me, I have sometimes wished 
you devout, that you might bestow your enthusiasm 
on Heaven, that’s less incommoded by such things 
than a miserable sinner. But in truth I reckon such 
sentiments to be of too little importance, either to 
God or man, to be given weight in deciding the fate 
of one for whom I have so much regard. When you 
have been a year or two well occupied with the cares 
of matrimony, you will blush to remember you once 
made a rout about a trifle which folks call, forsooth, 
‘Love.’” 

She looked at him with hollow eyes and a strange 

smile. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


3*8 

“ A trifle ?” she repeated slowly. “Well, it may 
be so ; you are oftenest right. But, Cadenus, if it be 
so, you should pity me the more that I have spoiled 
my life for a trifle.” 

“Pooh, Hesskinage, I'll not admit it spoiled at all, 
and certainly not for so foolish a cause, though in 
truth, with your fortune and your wit and your per- 
son, you might have made a more considerable figure 
in the world had you- chosen. ’Tis your splenetic 
disposition that’s to blame.” 

“My disposition is some way to blame, I do not 
question.” 

“I remember for example you would always 
despise and detest the converse of the world, whereas 
the philosopher despises and finds diversion in it. 
Then you had once some taste for display, and I 
would chide you for loving to have two footmen at 
your chair and a smart dress on your back ; but since 
you might honestly allow yourself such indulgences, 
with female perversity you have ceased to care for 
’em. There’s but one misfortune you can boast, and 
that’s poor Molkin’s death, with her long illness, that 
made you a perpetual nurse-tender. ’Tis true I have 
always been of opinion that you would be happier 
in England than here. For my part I cannot think 
why you have stayed in this scoundrel island.” 

“You cannot think, Cadenus?” Esther burst out. 
“Oh, but you know. You know I can’t live without 
seeing you.” 

“I used to tell you, Hess,” he said sternly, “that 
if you would return to England I would visit you 
there, and we should be easier together than ’tis 
possible to be among these prying people. Now I 
tell you solemnly that this is the last time I will visit 
you here, unless ’tis to find you ready packed for 
your voyage across the Channel, or ready dressed 
for your wedding. ” 

“You desire me then to marry Dr. Winter?” 

“I do, Essie. I am confident you would make 
him an excellent wife, and though there’s plenty of 
women that are rendered miserable by a parcel of 
squalling brats — I know women that detest brats as 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


319 

much as I do myself— yet you are just the kind to be 
never so happy as when you’ve a dozen little masters 
and misses of your own to look to. I desire you to 
marry Winter, because he has a sincere regard for 
you, and is such a husband as you are lucky to get.” 

Esther had pulled some petals from her white 
roses, and was curling and crushing them in her 
hand. 

“ There’s but one reason against it,” she said with 
increasing vehemence, * ‘and that is that I love you.” 

Swift had like herself grown pale and haggard as 
they talked. He shrugged his shoulders and made 
no reply. She cut a pattern with her thumb-nail in 
a white rose petal, then lifting her eyes said with 
lips that trembled so much they could scarcely 
frame the words : 

“You want me to do a wicked thing.” 

He sighed impatiently. 

“This is not reasonable, Essie.” 

“ Reasonable ! I am to lie to God and man, and 
for what reason ? That you may be the easier rid 
of me.” 

“You are very unjust, child. You know my ex- 
perience of the world hath long convinced me that 
marriage is better founded on a reasonable liking 
than on what is called Love, since ’tis in the nature 
of that passion to last but a little time.” 

Esther leaned back against the branch behind her 
and laughed ; but not the girlish laugh with which 
she had rallied him scarcely half an hour before. 

“ Ha, ha ! Cadenus — you must pardon my laugh- 
ing — but really you are too monstrously diverting. 
Last but a little time ! Ha, ha ! This is exquisite ! ” 
And there was another peal of laughter. 

Swift flushed and fixed on her his awful look, but 
for once the thunderbolt fell unmarked. 

“Good God!” she cried, not laughing now; 
“what do you call a little time? Twelve years? 
Twelve years of torture, Cadenus ? Oh, if you had 
spent ’em as I have, you’d think ’em a thousand !” 

“I fear ’tis your disposition to torment yourself, 
Governor Huff/’ he returned with forced mildness. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


320 

“And I cannot take the blame of that. I was used 
to say you and the Liffey was of the same temper ; you 
never murmured but sometimes roared. Yet I never 
knew you rage for much more than fifteen minutes 
together, and should say your wrath had now but 
five minutes to burn. Shall we be silent for five 
minutes by my watch,” and he drew the watch some- 
what laboriously out of a remote pocket, “in hopes it 
may be quenched when I speak again ? ” 

“ I will do anything you please — except marry Dr. 
Winter,” she replied ; but without obeying the ges- 
ture by which he invited her to be seated, she turned 
from him, while he took up a book which lay on the 
bench. 

It was a fatal five minutes which she spent staring 
into the green and silvery depths of the willows of 
the island below, and the brown waters swirling 
under them. A crowd of dark and bitter feelings, 
which had for years been held down, silent and form- 
less in the depths of her heart, rose up now and took 
shape. They were clamorous and not to be denied. 
When the five minutes were ended : 

“Come now,” he said, with the air of a kind 
parent speaking to an excited child, “ what do you 
complain of ?” 

“ Of my own madness,” she returned without look- 
ing round. “Yes, Cadenus, as you say, my youth 
has slipped through my fingers. And youth, as you 
love to remind us, is the only good money we 
women have got with which to buy ourselves a 
share in the happiness of this world. O, what a vile 
and senseless prodigal have I been ! How have I 
squandered mine ! I have bought nothing, nothing 
with it — no, not so much as one happy day to look 
back upon.” 

‘ ‘ Hush, hush, child ! ” cried Swift, pained and 
impressed at the bitterness with which she spoke. 
“This is raving. You have had much to be thank- 
ful for.” 

“I have,” she returned quickly. “I was better 
endowed by Providence than many that have pros- 
pered well enough. I had, even you’ll allow, more 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


3 2I 


sense than some ; but one error — one miserable folly ! 
— Heavens, what a ruin has it made ! Why, 'tis the 
bare truth that there's not a more wretched woman 
alive than I. One that had bought with her honour 
a little base felicity would at least have had some- 
thing for her bargain. I have had nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing. All torture — all wretchedness ! I 
have not deserved to suffer so much, Cadenus." 
And with a gesture of despair she turned once more 
to the branch of the thorn-tree, leaned her arms on 
it, and hiding her face in them wept bitterly. 

Swift was shocked and distressed at her agitation, 
although it never occurred to him to suppose that her 
words represented the truth, even approximately. 
He was silent a little, and then he said : 

“ Hesskin, it distresses me infinitely to see you in 
such a state of despondency. You have been too 
long alone here and have a sick head, as I have some- 
times. Go away, my poor Hesskin, go among your 
friends. ” 

‘ ‘ Where shall I be less alone than here ? ” she re- 
plied, struggling with her tears. “Where are my 
friends ? I have no friends but you, and you are not 
a true friend to me ! ” 

Swift started with mingled pain, indignation and 
amazement. 

“Essie, I forgive you," he said, “as you forgave 
me once when I had a bad head and talked against 
my best friends. Another might not so easily for- 
give it. In remembrance of that day, I promised 
you a faithful friendship so long as we both should 
live, and I have kept my promise.” 

“It was not like that you promised it," she re- 
turned wistfully, with a sob still in her voice. “ Yov 
said you loved me better than any one else in the 
world. O Cadenus, was that true ? ” 

“Tis a question I disdain to answer, Governor 
Huff, ” he replied angrily, for his conscience here began 
to stir. “I ask you in reply, have you kept your 
promise to be content with friendship, and abjure the 
follies of Love? ” 

“Did I promise so?" she asked, and drew her 
21 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


322 

hand across her forehead and sighed wearily. 
< Then I promised more than I could perform. Had 
your friendship meant all that it seemed to mean, 
’tis very like I should not have been content. ” 

“I visited you but too constantly, when you was 
first in Dublin, Missessy, and you was never satis- 
fied. " 

“No, Cadenus, I believe nothing would have sat- 
isfied me — but what I could not have.” 

“Then you acknowledge yourself an unreasonable 
woman and a promise-breaker ? ” 

“Anything you please,” she answered, sighing 
again. “What does it matter ? Tis all ancient his- 
tory. And yet,” she added timidly, plucking at the 
carnation in her bosom, “will you forgive me for 
asking again, Cadenus ? ’Tis not of your feeling 
now I would make requisition. But tell me sincerely, 
was it true that I was dearer to you than any one 
eight years ago? You said so that day.” 

Swift went even paler than before. His singularly 
vivid memory brought back to him but too clearly 
that scene in the Wantage fields and even his own 
feelings at the time. 

“It was, Essie,” he said solemnly. “May God 
forgive me!” 

“I am glad. But why do you say that?” She 
fixed her widening eyes on him and spoke in a 
very low frightened: voice “Was it that — was 
there ? ” 

She was about to ask some question, the answer to 
which would practically tell her whether another 
woman had had a prior claim on him — a question 
she would not have dared to ask but for her promise 
to Molly, not forgotten though unfulfilled. 

But before she had framed it, he suddenly put up 
his finger to his lips and frowned warningly. Then 
speaking in a loud indifferent voice : 

“I think, Missessy, I shall best answer your ques- 
tion by reading Lord Clarendons account of the 
matter, which, I apprehend, we shall find in one of 
these volumes. If not I must e’en fetch it for you 
from the Book-room. Let me see — volumes 4 
and 5.” * ' 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH. 


323 


And he took up the books. Esther hastily seated 
herself by his side, and began to turn over some pages, 
while listening to the tap of heels and rustle of a 
noisy petticoat above. In another minute the heels 
and the petticoat flounced down the steep steps to 
the bower, almost landing their owner on her nose 
at the Dean’s feet. 

“La, Cousin ! Han’t I given you a jump? I was 
sure you’d never hear me coming. I always do 
move like a mouse. Lud, I’m frightened to death to 
be so near the water. What a nerve you have, my 
dear ! How do you do, Dean ? Sure you look bloom- 
ingly. ” 

And Miss Stone sat down between the Dean and 
Miss Vanhomrigh, much incommoding them with her 
hooped petticoat. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Dean was the last person in the world to be 
pleased with the impertinent familiarity of address 
which was Miss Stone’s imitation of easy good 
manners. Yet on the whole he did not regret her 
arrival, as having hastily sent for his horse while he 
took a dish of coffee in the Book-room, he trotted 
homewards in the pleasant evening sunshine. For 
most of the way his road followed the curves of the 
Liffey. The hurrying river that swirled and foamed 
under the bower ran here less swiftly, mingling 
with its own coffee-brown colour the reflected tones 
of its banks. The unpollarded willows grew luxu- 
riantly beside it. Here they tossed their tremulous, 
gleaming wealth of foliage against a background of 
dark woods, there drooped it across a great mill- 
wheel or down into the hurrying water. Every 
willow on the road between Lucan and Dublin was 
known to Swift, who was a lover and a planter of 
willows. To-day, however, such few points in the 
surrounding scenery as he otherwise usually observed 
claimed no share in his meditations. His natural 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


324 

sensitiveness of disposition made it intolerably pain- 
ful to him to see suffering, either mental or physical, 
and ready to do almost anything to relieve it. The 
same sensitiveness, by a common paradox, made him 
eager to fly from sight or knowledge of it. Besides, 
he had his own reasons for avoiding everything out- 
side public matters which could tend to excite him. 
For thirty years he had bent the whole strength of 
his strong will to subduing an extreme nervous 
excitability which his pride had usually helped him 
to conceal from the world, but of which he himself 
was painfully aware. The first time he felt his rea- 
son totter under its stress, he had seen that the choice 
before him was not one between common self-gov- 
ernment and common absence of it, but between 
sanity and madness ; not immediate, but gradual 
and inevitable madness. From that time his whole 
struggle had been to achieve an existence of philo- 
sophic calm, imso far as that was compatible with the 
fulfilment of his legitimate ambitions, and the partial 
satisfaction of those affections which he had not 
merely in common with other men, but beyond 
them. He had been in a measure successful. The 
virulence and other defects of his pen may lend a 
touch of insanity to his writings in the eyes of a 
modern reader, but the contemporaries of his earlier 
days at least, saw nothing unusual in them but their 
power. He had been fortunate enough to find a 
woman who could both win and return his love, and 
yet agree to share his life but incompletely, her 
character and social circumstances combining to 
make her satisfied with her position so long as she 
was content with him. Thus it was years before he 
had cause to acknowledge that in avoiding marriage 
he had not avoided the difficulties and disturbances 
that are inseparable from all close human ties. 

So long as he was in the presence of Esther’s de- 
spair his sympathetic distress was greater than his 
annoyance at the stormy scene to which she had 
subjected him ; but as he rode home by himself, 
annoyance was decidedly the uppermost feeling in 
his mind. In the most complex questions of conduct 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


325 

there is usually a moment when there is something 
which it would be right and tolerably simple to do ; 
but like other “tides in the affairs of men” it is apt 
to pass very quickly, and afterwards every course 
involves a certain amount of wrong. That moment 
was long past in the history of his relations with 
Esther Vanhomrigh. However he treated her, he 
never felt easy in his mind as to the wisdom, or the 
justice of his conduct. Yet he did not exactly 
reproach himself, for he justly considered that the 
chances had been a million to one that such a pas- 
sion as Esther’s for him was a madness as brief as 
it was violent and singular. He might, had he been 
other than he was, have apprehended the peculiar 
depth and fervour of her emotional nature, but he 
could not be expected to realise his own fascination, 
the brilliant mind, the endlessly varied character, 
the mingled charm and terror of his ways, which 
made all the world beside little and insipid to her 
who had once fallen under his spell. 

“I am very unlucky,” he said, spurring his horse 
into a canter, “she seemed to have sense enough 
once, but now — Gad, of us two she’s by far the mad- 
dest. Heaven send us safe from womankind — ex- 
cept little Ppt. ! Ppt. is a true philosopher, and never 
stormed and wept at poor fond Rogue in all her dear 
little days, not even when he richly deserved it. I’ll 
go see her at supper time and we’ll be merry.” 

The twilight had fallen and the oil-lamps were 
twinkling when he rode into Dublin. Hastily chang- 
ing his riding-dress, he left the Deanery by the gar- 
den door, and was about to call a passing hackney 
coach, when he remembered that the old man at the 
corner had been sick lately. He was an honest old 
man, who sold pies and never begged, and the Dean, 
who usually dedicated special economies to special 
charities, reserved for him all the sixpences he might 
have spent on hackney coaches, and did not spend. 
He was tired with his expedition to Cellbridge and in 
a hurry for Ppt. and her supper, but as the old man 
was sick, he must not drive in a coach. So he strode 
off down St. Nicolas Street to Ormonde’s Quay, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


326 

dropping a sixpence in among the pies as he passed 
the corner of St. Patrick’s. 

When he reached the small house at Ormonde's 
Quay, he went upstairs to the parlour three steps at 
a time, and opening the door a little but remaining 
outside it, said, in a whining voice : 

“Madams, good madams, here’s a poor gentleman 
that has not tasted herrings these three nights. For 
the love of God, ladies, one little herring at three a 
penny. ” 

“Why, that’s Presto! ” cried Mrs. Johnson. 

“Pray now, come in or go out,” she added, some- 
what tartly; “you are putting Dingley and me in a 
deuce of a draught. ” 

The two ladies had just sat down to supper. 

“ Herrings !” he cried triumphantly, shutting the 
door behind him. 

“It does so happen that we have ’em to-night,” 
returned Hetty, “though we have had much more 
delicate fare these three nights, if you had chosen to 
come. Ha’ri't we, D. D ? ” 

Dingley, who appeared to be drawing a complete 
fish’s back-bone out of her mouth by some kind of 
jugglery, was naturally a full minute before answer- 
ing: 

“That we have, Dean. Besides, Hetty, you 
know we only have ’em to-night because that Mrs. 
O’Reilly is so very disappointing. And indeed ’tis 
quite a favour to get one of her fat partridges, but 
they can’t be depended upon. I said to Mrs. O’Reilly 
only yesterday, when she was at the door with her 
basket — ‘Now, my good Mrs. O’Reilly,’ I says ” 

“O pray, pray, D. D.,” cried Mrs. Johnson, “don’t 
begin with your ‘I says’ and ‘she says ’ till the next 
wet Midsummer day, when we shall have time to 
get to the end of ’em.” 

“Faith, I love a herring,” said the Dean, sitting 
down opposite Mrs. Johnson at the small table; 
“But I admire at D. D. who eats ’em every night of 
her life, and don’t yet know how to eat ’em like a 
Christian.” 

After twenty years he had still not given up hoping 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


327 

to improve poor Dingley's manners, nor being irri- 
tated at his failure to do so. 

“We don't eat 'em every night of our lives," 
retorted Ppt. “I wish you'd not make us and our 
housewifery the laughing-stock of Dublin. 'Tis too 
bad of you, Presto. " 

“Sure we never was so scurvy mean as you say, 
serving nothing for your supper but three herrings 
in a Delft plate," quoth Dingley, indignantly. ‘ ‘ You 
know we have real chaney which you gave us your- 
self, Dean. I use it when Hetty's well enough to 
wash it, but she won't have me do't since I cracked 
the tureen, which was not my fault at all." 

“ Poor little dear Ppt.,” said Swift gently, looking 
across the table and ignoring Dingley. “ She must 
be very sick if she cannot take a jest. Does Presto 
make a laughing-stock of Stella ? He thought he 
was always trying to make his poor jangling old 
lyre tuneable enough to do her honour." 

“You have done me a very great honour, " returned 
Ppt. holding her head high. “ If others don't think 
so the more's their folly.” 

“ Good girl ! ” said he reaching across the table to 
pat her hand. “That’s the way to speak. Presto 
often thinks Ppt. the only reasonable woman that 
ever he knew. That’s why he loves her and always 
will, as hope saved.” 

He smiled at her and she could not possibly have 
helped smiling back at him. 

“But what ails you to-night, poor pretty Pet ? ” he 
asked. “You have ate nothing but bread for your 
supper. Go now and lie down on your couch and 
let Dingley, that’s never sick, make you some broth." 

Yes, Ppt. was ailing ; she was generally ailing 
now, but the couch Presto had given her for her 
comfort, she considered too good to be used, and 
put away under holland in the best parlour. And 
she would not for worlds be so unmannerly as to 
leave the table before the rest of the company. When 
the frugal meal was over, Swift opened without 
remark the folding-doors that led into that solemn 
apartment, the best parlour, and pulled the holland 


328 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


cover off the couch ; then, suddenly catching up 
Hetty in his arms, he ran in and deposited her upon it. 

“Ugh, you’re heavy, Madam Pet!” he cried, 
shrugging his shoulders. “Yet not so heavy as you 
was. If you’ll but promise me not to grow lean, I’ll 
never again say you’re fat — for indeed ’tis a lie. I 
hate skinny women like Dingley,” he added in a 
lower voice. 

Here Dingley, who was luckily somewhat deaf, 
followed with a cushion for Hetty’s head, but he took 
it from her. 

“ Pray go to your own chair in the parlour, D. D. , ” 
he said. “I know ’tis the only thing you love. If 
you push it but a little back I can swear with a clear 
conscience I had my eye upon yoiuthe whole even- 
ing. ’Tis more than you can do for me, since in ten 
minutes yours will be shut.” 

“I shall not be asleep, if that’s what you would 
say, Dean,” returned Dingley, with dignity. I close 
my eyes to think the better.” This dialogue had 
passed between the two an incalculable number of 
times. 

Swift arranged the cushion under Hetty’s head less 
awkwardly than might have been expected, sat down 
by her and kissed her hand five times ; a kiss for 
every finger beginning at the thumb. She smiled 
faintly, but made no response. This was only as 
usual, for she was essentially undemonstrative, and 
such small endearments as passed between them 
had always been mostly on his side. 

“ I loathe Dingley,” he said, when he had accom- 
plished the five kisses. “I hate, I could cheerfully 
damn Dingley.” 

His voice was lowered so that his objurgations 
could not reach the ears of their innocent object. 

Hetty laughed a little. 

“Poor D. ! I love her well enough — that is, as 
well as I could love any woman I was compelled to 
live with.” 

“You are not compelled to live with her,” returned 
Swift eagerly. “ We can do well enough now with- 
out her money.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


329 

“’Tis not a matter of money,” replied Hetty. 
“Even were it so, ’twould not be just to throw off 
D.D. so soon as we could spare her money. She 
could not live without ours, and I believe she would 
be ill without mychidings ; they’re like letting blood 
to her.” 

“Unkind Dallah ! You think of Dingley and not 
of Presto, whose comfort is quite spoiled by her. 
When the debt on the Deanery is cleared, I will make 
a debt on D.D. I will pay her to go.” 

“ You will only have to pay some one else to come, 
and hate her just as much when she is there,” she re- 
plied. ‘ ‘ Besides, Presto, we are at Dingley’s mercy. 
She has of necessity shared our secrets.” 

“No, none of importance,” he answered, meaning 
that she had known nothing of the marriage. 

“I know not what you call important,” returned 
Hetty coldly. “ She has known much more of our 
intimacy than any one besides ourselves, and though 
she herself must perforce believe it innocent, if she 
be angry with us she will talk, and the world will 
say she was our dupe.” 

“ A fig for the world ! You wasn’t used to trouble 
for what the world said when you was younger, 
Madam Pet.” 

“No, indeed, I did not,” she cried. “But I can- 
not help troubling when such things happen.” 

“What things, dear goose?” asked he, taking up 
her fan, and fanning her with it. “ I know there’s 
some envious chit of sixteen been saying you’ll never 
see five-and-thirty again — for even Envy would 
never guess your age — and wondering what your 
Grattans and Fords and Delanys can see in an old 
maid. Pish ! ” And he tapped her lightly on the 
cheek with the fan. 

“No, Presto; I don’t think your chit of sixteen 
like to be troubled with envy of me. ’Tis not that. 
Something vastly unpleasant has happened. But 
you’re going to spend to-morrow at Delville, you 
say ? Ask dear good Delany about it. He’ll tell you 
what it is.” 

“Why is Delany to know more of Ppt.’s affairs 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


33 ° 

than Pdfr. ? Tell me yourself, Ppt., I insist. ’Tis 
some trifle, I’ll warrant, that that fool Delany has 
hatched out to look important over/' 

“Dr. Delany is no fool, Presto, as you know well, 
and the matter may seem a trifle to you, but ’tis 
both sad and mortifying to me. But I’ll not tell 
you. ” 

“Ah, but you shall — you must. How can you 
fancy anything that gives his de’ char’ pretty Pet 
uneasiness can be indifferent to the Fond Rogue? 
Pray try and think kindly of Presto, who thinks so 
kindly of you.” 

“Oh, well, since you insist.” She paused and 
went on reluctantly. “I went this morning to pay 
my wedding visit to Sophia Walls — Smith I should 
say. You know Sophy always was a favourite of 
mine when she was quite a little miss, though Lord 
knows I detest most children, especially girls. They 
showed me into the dining-parlour and kept me 
drumming with my heels for twenty minutes, and 
then down comes Delany, who happened to be in the 
house. And what do you think he came to tell me ? 
Sophy, if you please, was not permitted to come, 
and Mrs. Walls was too ashamed. So ’twas he very 
good-naturedly undertook to do Mr. Smith’s dirty 
work, lest the man himself should do it, and be more 
insulting than was necessary. For he came, Presto, 
to tell me that Mr. Smith had desired his wife not to 
receive visits from me.” 

“Infernal, insolent puppy!” cried Presto indig- 
nantly. 

“Oh, he was kind enough to admit I might be 
virtuous,” continued Ppt., calm but bitter. “But he 
seems to have heard something or other about you 
and me, and decrees that his Sophia’s friends must 
be, like King Somebody’s wife, above suspicion. 
Mrs. Walls is sincerely sorry, poor woman ; ’tis none 
of her fault, nor Sophy’s either.” 

“I am grieved that you should lose your friend, 
who was a good girl, and grieved too that she should 
have tied herself to a pretending, censorious fool. 
I’ll not call that a trifle. But as to disturbing our- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


331 

selves because the fellow reflects upon our conduct, 
we should be very foolish to do that, dear Dallah. 
I’ve heard tell he was ignorant enough at the Uni- 
versity, though here be sets up for a fine scholar, and 
most like his virtue too’s one of those new brooms 
that sweeps a bit too clean. ” 

“I’M not affect more indifference than I feel,” re- 
turned Hetty. “ Tis to my own forgetting disposi- 
tion that I chiefly look for comfort.” 

“ Sure Ppt. cannot think it Presto’s fault,” cried Swift, 
surprised and nettled at her coldness. “What has 
he not suffered for the sake of discretion ? Yes, and 
often was discreet in spite of Ppt. And never men- 
tioned her to his oldest friend but with infinite 
precautions.” 

“I told you I had no wish to talk of the matter,” 
said Hetty, beginningto rise from her couch. “But 
Presto cannot expect me to be .as careless and igno- 
rant of ‘the world as I was twenty years since.” 

This unpleasant incident had also reminded her of 
what she oftenest contrived to forget ; namely, that 
she had not received the absolute and unswerving 
devotion which she had once expected, and which 
might have compensated her for some social disadvan- 
tages. But she kept that reflection to herself. 

The agitations of the day had been almost too 
much for Swift’s equanimity, and now the peaceful 
evening he had promised himself at Ormonde’s Quay 
was proving quite the reverse. 

A dark flush overspread his face, and he clutched 
the arms of his chair. 

“By heavens ! ” he cried, in a low voice of bitter 
passion, “this insolent hypocrite shall rue the day 
he made an enemy of me ! I’ll make him smart for’t, 
I’ll make him roar again. Never fear, Ppt. , but we’ll 
have our revenge on him. But that ” — here he leaned 
forward and waved his hand in the direction of Hetty, 
who was sitting at the foot of the couch, — “that’s 
not what madam here wants. No, she wants to 
play mistress at the Deanery, to hold her public days, 
and to strut swingingly up the Cathedral to the Dean’s 
pew with Patrick carrying her prayer-book. She 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


332 

wants all the world to be making their curtseys to 
Madam Swift. Once she loved Presto, but now ’tis 
the world she loves.” 

There was a certain ill-natured and distorted truth 
in this which did not make it the pleasanter for poor 
Hetty. 

“ 111 not talk with you when you are in this mood, 
sir,” said she indignantly. “When have I said a 
word on which you can put this construction ? This 
is some fit of madness on you.” 

Swift fell back in his chair, and his flush faded to a 
vivid pallor. 

“Madness!” he groaned. “Ay, ’twas madness 
to believe a woman’s word when she said she cared 
not whether the world knew of her marriage ; she 
only cared to be my wife before God and the Church. 
Tell me, do you whisper your gossip, the poor Dean’s 
mad — mad ? ” 

He was clasping his trembling hands across his 
eyes, endeavouring to calm his excitement. She had 
never before seen him lose his self-control, and her 
surprise almost overpowered her indignation. He 
was scrupulously temperate, but to-night he must 
surely have departed from his strict rule. 

“Presto,” she said, rising to her feet, “I don’t 
know what you’re -talking about, and I fear you don’t 
know yourself. Sure you have dined too well some- 
where. ” 

He was too proud to accept the accusation and too 
prudent to deny it, for it afforded an explanation for 
his unwonted outburst. He remained silent with his 
hand still over his eyes. 

‘ ‘ Where did you dine, Presto ? ” 

‘‘Good-night, Madam Ppt. I am not well. Iam 
going home.” 

Hetty knew not whether she was pleased or sorry 
to conclude he had dined with Miss Vanhomrigh. 
She was apt, rightly or wrongly, to trace his unami- 
able moods to that pernicious influence. Now she 
considered she had a definite complaint to make 
against Miss Vanhomrigh, and before morning had 
turned most of her indignation into that channel. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


333 

As Swift walked along Ormonde’s Quay in the 
direction of the Deanery, he struck the cobble-stones 
furiously with his stick. He was angry with himself 
and every one else. 

“Confound women !” he muttered. “ If I could 
begin life again, on my soul I'd never speak to one. 
Ppt. is the best of them, but I was an ass when I gave 
her rights over me. ” 

To acknowledge his marriage now, after all this 
while, was so difficult and would give rise to so much 
scandal, and as to taking a wife to live in his house 
and accommodating himself to a domestic life, it was 
more repugnant to him than ever. Above all there 
was his secret. Heaven forbid that it should be in the 
hands of two women ! He sometimes wondered that 
he so little repented having confided it to Essie, though 
her impulsive temperament made her less likely 
to keep a secret than Hetty Johnson. He could not 
reasonably explain his greater confidence in her, but 
its source lay in his instinctive faith in her more su- 
preme and perfect love for him. Ppt. loved him as 
well as she knew how, as well as most people knew 
how, but Essie could love better than that. As he 
passed over the dark, dirty, hurrying Liffey, that was 
hastening to bear the refuse of the town to the sea, 
he almost wished himself a stick or a straw to be 
seized and borne away by the water, that came flow- 
ing swiftly down from the Bower, and swiftly past 
Ormonde s Quay ; to be borne away and tossed out at 
length on the wide fresh lonely sea, far from purified 
from all contact with humanity. 

A kind of fair was being held in the long, narrow 
St. Nicolas Street that evening. It was at the best a 
malodorous street, the lower stories of its crumbling 
houses open to the pavement and full of second-hand 
clothes and other wares. The feeble oil-lamps that 
swung over these established shops were to-night 
reinforced by the flaring torches of itinerant vendors. 
In their fitful glare a crowd of dirty, ragged people 
pressed about from stall to stall, chattering, yelling, 
laughing over their bargains and their play. High 
above the torches and the confused movement of the 


334 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


street, and beyond its dark vanishing line of gables, 
the Cathedral spire stood silent, pointing up to the 
blue gulf of heaven, to the quiet stars. 

With his eyes raised to this, the Dean pushed hastily 
on, bestowing as little attention as possible on the 
crowd, the “ drove of Yahoos,” as he called them to 
himself in bitter disgust ; though he could not quite 
overlook certain elvish children, who boldly pulled at 
his gown, and women who called out a ‘ ‘ Good-night 
to you, your Riverence,” or a “God bless you, Mr. 
Dane,” as he passed. 

No, he would not go to Delville to-morrow. He 
would let them suppose he had gone, but he would 
spend the day riding out along the strand ; perhaps 
dine at Howth Castle, perhaps nowhere. 

Next morning he awoke calmed and refreshed by 
sleep, but with the uncomfortable feeling of a child 
who had gone to bed naughty and unrepentant. He 
wrote an affectionate, apologetic note to Ppt. inquir- 
ing after her health, begging her not to trouble about 
that list she was to copy for him, and telling her he 
meant to be out of Dublin till the evening. Then 
he despatched some Cathedral business, mounted his 
horse, and presently was cantering along the* shore 
of the bay, meeting with delight the fresh breeze from 
the sea, that glittered and gloomed far out to the east- 
ward, under the changeful morning sky. 


CHAPTER VI. 

As soon as the Dean had left the book-room at Cell- 
bridge and started on his homeward ride, Miss Stone, 
whom he had remorselessly snubbed, began to shake 
out the draggled feathers of her self-esteem and take 
her revenge. She had no intention of trampling on 
Esther’s susceptibilities in the process ; like most people 
who say unpardonable things, she simply never 
thought of her auditor except as an audience. The 
supreme necessity for her was to minister with words 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


335 

to her own vanity or resentment. She would have been 
amazed, but, it is to be feared, more offended than 
grieved, had she learned that she was generally con- 
sidered malicious, and that wherever she went she 
left behind her rankling wounds. 

“My dear Essie/' she said, the roundness and 
prominence of her eyes becoming more marked than 
usual, ‘ ‘ do you know, if I was you, I would not re- 
ceive visits from single gentlemen without I had a 
lady here. 'Tis true you are not young, yet scarce 
old enough to live alone. Dr. Swift too is an elderly 
man — he shows his years now, though in London I 
remember he looked young for 'em — elderly, but such 
a man ! ” 

“The Dean of St. Patrick's is a very old friend of 
mine, cousin, as you must be aware. " 

* 4 Friend, my dear girl ! Why, 'tis generally admitted 
he treated you exceedingly ill, and sure we all admired 
your spirit in coming out here and avoiding his com- 
pany, so soon as you found how matters stood. ” 

“ I came out here, cousin, when my principal law- 
business was settled and when I could afford to live 
here/' 

“ Sure you don’t mean to tell me you never heard of 
his amour with Mrs. Johnson? A very witty woman, 
and handsome still, they say, but of shocking low 
birth. However, 'tis said he has married her/' 

“ His friends cannot suspect him of an intrigue and 
know nothing of a marriage. Methinks, Anna, you 
have too good a memory ior stale scandals.” 

‘ ‘ Stale ! Why, there's always something new about 
the Dean. Cousin Annesley's own woman that’s 
sister to Mrs. Walls’ maid — you’ll acknowledge the 
Walls are friends of his— she says the Archdeacon 
and all his family are in a terrible taking because 
their new son-in-law from England threatens to shut 
the door in Mrs. Johnson's face, and speaks strongly 
against the Dean. But I hear that Dr. Delany — who’s 
a great admirer of this Mrs. Johnson — a strange sort 
of woman to be having admirers at her age ! — Delany 
more than hints she’s Madam Swift, if the truth were 
known. And he’s a friend now, an’t he ? ” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


336 

“ I am not acquainted with Dr. Delany,” returned 
Essie, shortly. 

Indeed, the good Delany, in his enthusiastic friend- 
ship for Mrs. Johnson, was a somewhat bitter parti- 
san, and had avoided being introduced to one whom 
he believed to have been a source of grief to her, and 
whom he was willing to consider responsible for 
certain of his admired Deans shortcomings. 

“If you have no advice to offer me except that I 
should attend to the tattle or servants and other com- 
mon folk, and decline the visits of my oldest friend — 
why, cousin, you had better not waste breath on me/’ 
she added. 

Anna had long pursued the project of becoming a 
regular inmate of Cousin Vanhomrigh’s house, for 
now Molly’s keen eyes and mocking tongue were re- 
moved, it would be, she thought, very comfortable. 
It somewhat flurried her to perceive that she had 
irritated her cousin, whom she was used to pronounce 
of a phlegmatic disposition. 

“Lord, Essie/' she said, “don’t be huffed! ’Tis 
a difficult matter for a young woman to live alone ; 
but I must say I think you no worse off than when 
you had poor Molly. You always was much the 
more sober-minded and discreet of the two ; I was 
your friend from the first, and frequently defended 
you when my mamma reflected on your reading, and 
would say ’twas better to be a bit of a reader than a 
giddy painted thing like your sister, poor creature — 
who was certainly heavily chastened in this life, and 
I hope has found peace in another.” 

“Cousin Anna,” cried Essie, trembling with min- 
gled feelings, “there was a time when I was in 
spirits enough to be diverted by such observations as 
yours. Ten years ago Moll and I were vastly di- 
verted by the pleasant notion you and Sarah had got of 
making yourselves agreeable to a couple of sisters 
by backbiting one to the other. I remember Moll 
carrying the jest yet further, by praising you and 
Sarah to each other. For my part, even then, I some- 
times found such manners too base and disgusting 
to laugh at ’em. But now, now when my heart’s yet 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


337 

bleeding from the loss of my dear girl, you come 
and think to flatter me by your dull censure of her 
whose excellence was ever my joy and delight, of 
her I had the happiness to love. Why, ’tis not com- 
mon decency. I have defended you too, Anna ; I 
have often said you had more good nature than ap- 
peared, but I promise you I'll never say so again. I 
tell you plainly 1 detest your conduct. Heavens, 
what a heart must you bear ! ” 

And here the passion of tears, which she had stopped 
in mid course m the Bower, returned on her, and 
rushing from the room she left Miss Stone to her 
reflections — or rather her stupefaction. Anna had 
never heard such plain speaking as this since she 
parted from her own sister, and it is to be feared that 
Essie’s speech, though plain, was less addressed to 
her particular faculties than Sarah's was wont to be. 
She really could not see what she had said that was 
so very dreadful. She had not alluded to the family 
scandal, though of course she had thought of it, for 
her mind was of the kind where such rubbish lies 
heaped, the most ancient and the newest jostling each 
other like Roman potsherds and Britannia metal tea- 
pots in the depths of a city river. Stupefaction hav- 
ing given way to indignation, and Cousin Vanhom- 
righ not having re-appeared, she set forth to return 
on foot to the place whence she had come, where 
she could not resist telling the tale of her own dis- 
comfiture to ears not wholly sympathetic. 

Meantime Essie, having locked both the parlour- 
doors, lay there face downwards on Molly’s couch 
in a paroxysm of sobs the physical convulsion of 
which made her almost unconscious of their cause, 
or rather causes. When it was over, she had prom- 
ised herself solemnly on her knees to keep her 
promise to Molly, not only in the letter but in the 
spirit. She would insist on Cadenus telling her 
whether he was or was not married, or otherwise 
bound by ties nearer and dearer than he had acknow- 
ledged, to this Mrs. Johnson. If so, she would leave 
Ireland, and not endeavour to forget him — for that 
was impossible — but endeavour to allow him to forget 

22 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


338 

her, which she was compelled to believe he would 
find only too easy. She was to spend the next day 
in Dublin on business connected with her property, 
and Francis was to accompany her. She would leave 
him later in the day, when the Dean was likely to be 
at home, and go ask her plain momentous question. 

The twilight was beginning to fall as Essie ap- 
proached the Deanery on the day following the Dean’s 
visit to Cellbridge. She might have reached it ear- 
lier, but on various pretexts she had put off her visit 
till the last possible moment. It had been her in- 
variable custom to call there with due ceremony, 
having her old man-servant with her to announce 
her arrival by a pompous double knock at the great 
door. But the Dean had frequently let her out by 
his garden-door, and as this happened to be stand- 
ing open, she went in by it, too intent on her pur- 
pose to consider whether so informal an entrance 
would meet with his approval. From the garden 
she could see some one writing in the window of the 
library. Candles were already lighted in the room, 
and against their flame she saw the silhouette of a 
woman’s head, which certainly did not belong to 
Mrs. Brent, the housekeeper. Her heart gave a great 
bound and then stood still ; something told her that 
this was Mrs. Johnson. She stood for some minutes 
with her fascinated gaze fixed on the silhouette, bowed 
over a great book, and the quickly moving pen. 
Then turning round she was aware of some one else 
in the garden — a man in his shirt-sleeves, digging 
potatoes. Patrick had been left this task by his mas- 
ter that morning, and had postponed it till now. 

“Is the Dean within, Patrick?” she asked. 

“No, madam, he’s gone to Delville. I hope I see 
your la’ship in good health.” 

“Purely, I thank you. Who is the lady in the 
library ? ” 

“Sure, ’tis Mrs. Johnson, madam.” And having 
said this, Patriok scratched his head and was pene- 
trated with regret at not having lied. 

“I wish to pay her my respects. Will you an- 
nounce me, Patrick ? ” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


339 

He gave a comical look at his earth-stained clothes 
and hands. 

“Sure, madam, she’d be afther calling me a dirty 
divil for gladiatoring round with the quality widout 
a dacent coat to my back.” 

“No matter, I will announce myself,” replied Miss 
Vanhomrigh, and turned impulsively towards the 
house ; it struck her that it was perhaps all the better 
that she should appear alone. 

Hetty Johnson, with that native philosophy which 
had justly endeared her to her friend, had easily made 
up her mind to pass over the unpleasant incident of 
the preceding evening. This philosophy of hers per- 
haps owed something to the fact that Madam Ppt., 
in spite of her ailments, was an excellent sleeper A 
good eight hours’ sleep usually does its work in smooth- 
ing out the ruffled mind, as thoroughly as a good high 
tide, that smoothes out the teased and trampled sands 
of a watering-place, leaving there fresh stores of shin- 
ing seaweed and wet shells for the children to gather, 
In token that she bore no malice against her friend, 
she had come to copy into his ledger his list of the poor 
people who were to receive badges, entitling them to 
beg within the Liberties, whence other beggars were 
henceforth to be excluded. A task which would be 
the more obviously a labour of love, because the Dean 
knew that Ppt. shrugged her graceful shoulders at 
this new-fangled arrangement, as at one of poor dear 
Presto’s many odd fancies, which one must indulge 
because they were his. She had even said that had 
she lived within the Liberties, she would, upon her 
word, have laughed at his rules, and been a free-trader 
in beggars ; for sure the poor wretches had all a right 
to get what they could, and she would not herself be 
near so charitable were it not for the number and the 
divertingness of the Dublin beggars. His official 
beggars would soon become as dull as beadles, and 
charm not a groat out of any one’s pocket. 

So Ppt. smiled at her own virtue, with a half-humo- 
rous and quite unpharisaical pleasure therein, as she 
finished her copy and wrote beneath it the date, and 
“Jonathan Swift,” in a hand which other people 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


340 

might think his, but which he would know. As she 
was forming the big “J” there came a knock at the 
door. She said “Come in,” without raising her eyes, 
feeling sure it would be only Dingley or Mrs. Brent. 
The person came in, but did not advance into the room. 
When she had finished writing “Jonathan Swift,” she 
looked up and saw the person standing by the door 
— a lady very tall and pale in the dim light, and her 
long straight mourning cloak. The hood had half 
fallen back from her fair head, and her large dilated 
eyes were fixed on Mrs. Johnson with a strange, intent 
look that was almost beseeching in its anxiety. 

“Mrs. Johnson — I have the honour to address?” 
she asked in a low voice, harmonious but somewhat 
tremulous. 

Mrs. Johnson, whose mind moved quickly, did not 
waste much time in astonishment. She stood up 
under arms almost immediately. 

“Your servant, madam,” she replied, holding her 
head up proudly on her long neck, and returning the 
intruder’s look with one morepold and keen. “Your 
visit is doubtless to the Dean. He is abroad, and is 
not expected home till late.” 

“ It was meant for him, yet, madam, I’d as lief it 
were to you,” returned Miss Vanhomrigh, nervously 
grasping her own cloak. 

“Pray, madam, be seated, ’’said Mrs. Johnson, de- 
termined not to be justly accused of ill-breeding. 
“ May I inquire the name of her who honours me 
with a visit ? ” 

“Forgive me, madam, if I do not answer that ques- 
tion,” replied Essie, her voice still tremulous. “ Who 
I am matters not, so you will but believe my inten- 
tions are honest, as indeed, madam, they are.” 

Mrs. Johnson bowed with a little look of disdain 
that passed unnoticed. Miss Vanhomrigh might not 
know her by sight, but she knew Miss Vanhomrigh ; 
Dmgley had once pointed out the young lady from 
Mrs. Stoyte’s parlour window, and after that she had 
passed her once or twice in the streets of Dublin, and 
each time with a thrill of pain and repulsion that sur- 
prised herself. She had seen the visitor approaching 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


341 

the house, but owing to the gathering dusk and her 
bad eyesight had concluded her to be a friend of 
Mrs. Brent’s. But now she had no doubt who it was. 
Did the discreet Presto encourage Miss Vanhomrigh 
to enter his house thus, by a back way, alone and 
unannounced ? — Surely not. 

Miss Vanhomrigh seated herself on a hard settee 
and Mrs. Johnson on a chair at a little distance. So 
these two women, who had for ten years played so 
dire a part in each other’s lives, met for the first time 
face to face. They could not but look at each other 
with painful interest. Esther saw before her a woman 
who had reached middle life, with a face still hand- 
some enough, but cold and hard ; not that face bright 
with sparkling gaiety or sly humour or cheerful 
benevolence, with which Hetty Johnson charmed her 
social circle. There was a sense m which the look 
Mrs. Johnson wore at that moment was encouraging 
to her rival, for it lent a new probability to Swift’s 
assertion that he had been only like an elder brother 
to her, and that she was jealous over him, as sisters 
sometimes are over brothers. Essie, on the contrary, 
m the flush and simplicity of her emotion, looked 
unusually pretty, soft, and girlish. 

“What have you to say to me, madam?” asked 
Mrs. Johnson, with an icy calm that was not as- 
sumed ; for a deep and bitter coldness seemed to 
rise from some hidden depths in her heart and freeze 
her whole nature, as she looked at this young woman, 
who, it seemed to her, had striven in the insolence 
of youth, wealth and position to rob another, one 
older and less fortunately situated, of her only treas- 
ure ; and for a time had succeeded, and thereby for 
ever lessened the treasure's worth. 

“I know not,” returned Essie, forgetful of forms, 
of all except the fulfilment of her purpose. “That 
is, I know what I would say. Mrs. Johnson, you 
are a very old friend, almost a sister to the Dean, are 
you not ? ” 

“I am no sister nor otherwise related to him, 
madame,” answered Hetty, wifully misunderstanding 
the question. “ But, as is well known to his friends, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


34 2 

he has been my kind protector and closest friend 
from my childhood till now.” 

“Then you must be well acquainted with his hu- 
mour, ” returned Essie, “ and aware 'tis a singular one. 
Oh, do not mistake me,” she added quickly, as Hetty 

looked up with a slight frown ; “I know, and 

Heavens ! how do I honour his great, his generous 
disposition. Was never, sure, a heart so tender to 
his friends, so kind to the unfortunate, so staunch to 
every cause that he deems just and true. No, no ! 
I do not speak m dispraise of him. ” 

A faint flush came to Mrs. Johnson’s marble cheek, 
and her soft dark eyes glowed under their black 
brows. Irritable and sarcastic as she constantly 
was, she did not know the sensation of violent an- 
ger, of a passion that swelled the veins and made hot, 
unmeasured words rush from the throbbing brain to 
the tongue. No doubt as a little child she had expe- 
rienced it, but never as a mature woman. Now such 
anger rose within her, as Miss Vanhomngh praised 
her own husband to her. But she controlled it. 

“Madam,” she said with studied calm, “I’ll not 
affect to be made very proud by your commendations 
of the Dean, for you say but what his old friends have 
been saying these thirty or forty years. Yet ’tis per- 
haps as well I am here to listen to it rather than he, 
for though a divine, he is human, and the praises of 
so fine a young lady might make him vain.” 

Essie, absorbed in the difficulty of coming to her 
point, continued : “1 praise him only because I can- 
not refrain from doing it — only because I hate to be 
forced to suspect a fault in him, and that fault — a 
want of candour. Madam, it seems you have known 
him well since he was a young man, tell me — on my 
honour I do not ask it idly — would he be likely to 
keep from you, from another, a secret that it would 
have been wiser, more just to tell them ? I hate to 
think it possible, indeed I do. ” 

'* Madam, ” leturned Mrs. Johnson, her voice trem- 
bling with anger, “excuse me, I am but a poor 
country-bred creature. It may be polite breeding 
would compel me to answer a question that to my 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


343 

simplicity appears exceedingly strange, seeing that 
the Dean is, as you must be aware, my most valued 
friend and benefactor. Well, I make no pretensions 
to be a fine lady, and am therefore free to say I would 
not discuss the Dean s faults, whether real or fancied, 
with my oldest acquaintance, much less with a com- 
plete stranger like yourself. ” 

“ Oh, for God’s sake ! ' cried Essie, in too deadly 
earnest to admit offence, “do hear me. As you are 
a Christian woman, madam, restrain your anger — I 
cannot think ’tis just — and listen to what I have to 
say. Pray do It does concern you, though you 
may not think it.” 

Mrs. Johnson, impressed by the appeal, and 
ashamed of her passion, stood irresolute. She felt 
no fatal curiosity to hear the truth about Swifts re- 
lations to her rival, but, on the contrary, shrank from 
confidences that might be painful and could have no 
practical result. Perhaps the chief reason why it 
roused her wrath to hear Miss Vanhomrigh boldly 
accuse him of want of candour was because that 
was a trait in his character which she had been 
at pains to hide from herself, to explain away, 
since it had forced itself on her attention nine 
years ago. But Hetty Johnson was a good woman. 
Miss Vanhomrigh s manner of entrance and her im- 
mediate plunge into a subject of great delicacy had 
naturally both startled and shocked her ; yet to give 
way to passion, to trample rudely on one who stood 
before her as a suppliant, though that one had 
wronged her, this Hetty could not do. Besides, there 
was something compelling in Esthers intensity of 
purpose. 

“Madam,” she said, speaking once more with 
composure, “you bid me as lam a Christian hear 
what you have to say. I am no enthusiast, yet 
Christian is a name I value, and I trust you do too, 
and that you do not make use of it for any vain or 
malicious purpose. But since my patience is of the 
shortest, and my friend Mrs. Dingle may at any 
moment join us, I beg you’ll be brief. Sure, ’twere 
childish to make so much ado about such a question 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


344 

as you have asked. Be plain. How does the Dean 
want candour ?” 

Essie raised her eyes, fixed them on Mrs. Johnson, 
and seemed about to speak, yet said nothing. 

“What secret do you imagine he has to keep?” 
asked Hetty, with the impatience of pain. 

Essie clasped her hands tightly together, and at 
length spoke falteringly and by a great effort. 

“ Most likely he has none — but I came hither to- 
day to ask him whether ’tis true what people say ; 
whether he is a married man, or in any way bound — 
not free.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried Hetty, and there was a pause. Then 
— “ By what right, madam, would you have ven- 
tured to ask him such a question ? ” 

“Tell me, tell me, can you answer it?” cried 
Essie. 

“You have said it — I insist on learning your right, 
your motive before I answer,” returned Hetty 
quickly. 

“Madam,” cried Essie, “I have no right — none 
that he would acknowledge, yet you will understand 
my motive, for you are a woman too ! Give me a 
moment and I will try to make it clear to you.” 

Leaning with one arm over the side of the settee, 
and her handkerchief pressed to her lips, she paused, 
looking not at Mrs. Johnson, but away into the 
deepening twilight of the room ; and so after unin- 
terrupted silence she went on, but still intermit- 
tently — 

“I have a friend, a kinswoman — I'll not tell you 
her name. When she was but sixteen years old the 
Dean took note of her ; he commended her wit, and she 
had wit enough to be very proud of his praise. Years 
after that when he was in London — ah, you Dublin 
folk don’t know yet how they sought after him in 
London ! — he made a pastime of enlightening her 
folly, of teaching her to reason and distinguish. He 
that had the greatest and wittiest in the kingdom for 
his intimates, he condescended to be friends with 
her. Madam, you know him, gifted with what a 
happy genius, how charming in his benevolence to 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


345 

those he loves, how various in — well, well, you 
know ! ” 

Mrs. Johnson had stiffened in her chair as these 
praises of Swift came out slowly, and ended with a 
sigh. 

“’Tis enough — ’twas but natural,” Essie resumed 
with an effort, her voice deepening and steadying, 
“ that she should love him. She loved him, madam. 
She loves him still. Yes, you can easily imagine, 
she loves him still ; for what wretched pigmies must 
the common run of men look beside that image that 
she perpetually carries in her mind ! ” 

“And Dr. Swift ? Has he returned her passion ? ” 
Mrs. Johnson spoke with unnatural calm. She had 
been listening to Miss Vanhomrigh with part of her at- 
tention, but as she listened new and painful thoughts 
had passed through her mind. How if she had made 
a mistake in allowing her whole life to be strictly 
bounded by Swift’s rules, and meantime another 
woman had trampled on them, rushed in and taken 
the kingdom for her own ? It was terrible to await 
the answer to this question, and terrible also to be 
compelled to give it ; for there was not even a plain truth 
to fall back upon. Pride, her own ever-sanguine 
thoughts, and the growing doubt whether this icy 
woman opposite her could ever have loved even Swift, 
made an affirmative tremble upon Essie’s lips. But was 
it true ? Would he admit it had ever been so ? No ; 
he would be angry at the imputation. And she had 
come hither scarcely at all for her own sake, but that she 
might at length behave with justice towards this 
woman, of whose position she had for years thought 
more than she had chosen to admit even to Molly, 
to whom she was now prepared to yield even her 
heart’s blood. The struggle was short but sharp. 
Then — “ No,” she said faintly. 

Mrs. Johnson, who had leaned back in her chair, 
sat up again, and spoke after a pause. 

“Then, madam, ’tis plain that, whether the Dean 
be married or single, this young lady should abandon 
at once her — her unfortunate passion. ” 

A harder word had risen to her lips, but she sup- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


346 

pressed it. Like many just people, who have little 
to forgive themselves, Mrs. Johnson found it difficult 
to be generous, but she wished to be so. 

“’Tis useless to persuade her,” returned Essie, her 
head bowed and her eyes fixed on her own tightly- 
claspedhands. “ Nothing can do ’t except the know- 
ledge that he is bound to another by some tie of love 
and honour superior to the tender friendship ” — the 
phrase pricked Hetty like a pin, for she knew it — 
“ that he has often avowed for her. Is he so bound ? 
Oh, madam, pray do answer me freely, for, though 
I honour marriage, I am not so much the slave of the 
world’s opinion as to regard no other tie between man 
and woman as deserving of consideration. Tell me, 
I implore you ! ” 

She raised her eyes to Mrs. Johnson’s, who met 
them with a white stern face and an imperious gesture 
that commanded her to pause. Presto had Ppt.’s 
word of honour that the fact of their marriage should 
never be hinted at. He had suggested last night that 
worldly motives were making her repent, that promise. 
She would show him that at any rate she knew how 
to keep it. 

‘ ‘ Madam, ” she said deliberately, ‘ ‘ I know not what 
you would hint. The Dean is not a man to form any 
unlawful tie — you might have guessed as much. As 
to love, to the best of my belief — and you’ll remember 
that I am his oldest friend — he has never once enter- 
tained that passion, not even at the age when few 
have the discretion to avoid it. The chief part of your 
question seems to be whether he is married. I can 
but say he has never told me so ; but, on the contrary, 
often talked against marriage, especially the marriage 
of men advancing in years. I have answered you, 
madam, as well as I am able, and beg you’ll excuse 
me. ’Tis full time I returned to my lodgings.” 

“You have concealed nothing from me ? Are you 
sure you have told me everything ? ” asked Essie 
earnestly, rising from the sofa. 

Hetty rose too. 

“ I have answered you, madam, to the utmost of 
my power and my short patience. I heard a friend 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


347 

who is to walk home with me come into the house 
just now ; you really must excuse me. Will you wait 
the Dean here ? ” 

“No, no!” cried Essie, terrified. “Farewell, 
madam. I thank you for your patience, and ask your 
pardon for my singular conduct, which may well 
seem unpardonable.” 

She sighed, and drew her hood forward. Both 
ladies curtseyed, and Miss Vanhomrigh left the room, 
leaving the door wide open in her haste. 

Hetty did not immediately follow her ; she sat 
down again. She seemed to have been sitting stone 
still for a long time, and certainly must have been so 
for several minutes, when a voice called her, low 
but clear. 

“Mrs. Johnson.” 

Surely that woman was not still there ; yet it was 
her voice. Hetty did not immediately reply. 

“Mrs. Johnson,” it came again, louder and more 
insistent. 

Hetty walked slowly and reluctantly to the open 
door. Yes, Miss Vanhomrigh was still there. She 
stood just under the large lantern that hung in the 
middle of the square hall, with its handsome paving 
of great black and white marble slabs. Her face was 
very pale, paler than . it had been before, and the 
lantern cast the shadow of her hood across her eyes. 
It made them look almost black, yet they gleamed 
out of the shadow. 

“Mrs. Johnson,” she repeated. Hetty moved a 
little nearer, yet not much beyond the lintel of the 
door. 

“Listen,” she said, and her voice though not loud 
was very clear, and had a strength and ring of com- 
mand in it that Hetty had not heard before ; “I am 
myself that woman, that most unhappy woman I 
spoke of. I appeal to you before God, as you hope 
for mercy, have mercy on me and on yourself ! Tell 
me the truth. Are you married to Dr. Swift ? ” 

Mrs. Johnson stood up white, transformed to stone, 
but with her eyes fronting that piercing gaze opposite, 
that seemed as though it would tear the heart out of 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


343 

her bosom. At length she spoke, and was aware that 
a little tremor ran through her, but her enunciation 
was clear, haughty, deliberate. 

“No, madam, I am not. You have asked too 
much. Go ! Leave this house ! ” and she pointed 
to the door, which was open, as though her strange 
visitor had once already gone out. Then the black 
figure vanished silently again into the outer dusk, 
this time to return no more. 

Yet even before it had gone, Hetty had turned her 
back on it. Never, never before in all her life, in 
which reason had ever controlled emotion, had she 
experienced or imagined such a struggle as that 
which had but now torn her bosom. She trembled 
and stretched out her hands for support, as though 
she had received a blow, and so going blindly back 
into the dim library, found herself sudddenly yet 
gently caught and supported in a man’s arms. 

“ Dear, dearest Ppt.,” whispered Swift’s voice close 
to her ear. “’Twas worthy, ’twas noble. Mad- 
woman ! How durst she come here ? Ah, I thought 
you would not lie, you that hate a lie ! And then I 
heard you do ’t — and all for Presto’s sake. Dear, 
brave Ppt. How can he ever be sorry enough ? ” 

“Let me go,” she said faintly : “I am not well. 
Let me sit down.” Then — “How did you come 
here ? ” 

He seated himself by her on the settee, and took 
her irresponsive hand. 

“ When I came in, Mrs. Brent told me there was 
some one with you in the library ; so I went in there,” 
pointing to a door communicating with the dining- 
parlour. “ But I heard nothing, so presently I opened 
the door softly and stole in. That was how it hap- 
pened. I never meant to spy on Ppt., nor that moon- 
struck creature either. Heaven knows how she 
came hither ; ’twas not at my invitation. But I am 
very glad I heard Ppt. tell her brave lie ; else she 
would have kept the thing a secret, and never have 
allowed Pdfr. to know all her loyalty and goodness to 
him.” 

“Pray let Patrick order a coach,” said Hetty; “I 
am not well. I wish to go to my lodgings.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


349 


il Poor dear Dallah ! Let me go with you.” 

“No, no. Why should you? Dingley must be 
here somewhere. Pray call Patrick ! ” 

And hurrying to the door again, Mrs. Johnson 
called out in a shrill, fretful voice, ‘ ‘ Dingley, Dingley ! ” 
Dingley answered from the distance, and Swift com- 
ing meekly forth, shouted to Patrick in an opposite 
direction. 

“You won’t let me come ? ” he asked. 

“You are very good to offer it ; but Dingley will 
take care of me. ” 

“ May I come to supper ? ” 

“Faith, if you choose to sup with Dingley and eat 
her tripe. I am sick, and going to bed.” 

“May I come in the morning?” he asked almost 
timidly. 

“ I thought, Presto, ’twas our rule not to meet of a 
morning. I see no reason why you should come 
before dinner. Mr. Ford has sent us a hare, so you 
had best dine with us to-morrow.” 

“ Dear, poor Ppt. ! ” he said in a whisper, standing 
close to her, and looking down at her inscrutable face 
with wistful eyes; “ she thinks it was my fault. It 
was not indeed — as hope saved, it was none of Presto’s 
fault. ” 

“Don’t!” she cried, with a quick look of pain. 
“Why will you talk about it? Let us forget it as 
soon as we can. Ah, here’s Dingley ! D. D., I am 
sick — we must ride home.” 

Dingley was voluble in finding excuses for Hetty’s 
sickness, which ranged from the bit of lobster she 
had eaten last week to the magpie they had seen in 
the Phoenix Park that afternoon. Having satisfied 
herself that the cause was found, her anxiety was 
allayed. Patrick had caught a coach close by, and 
the Dean helped the ladies in, vainly trying to win a 
glance from Ppt.’s averted eyes. When the coach 
had driven off he went back to the library, and find- 
ing his big ledger open where Hetty had been copy- 
ing his list, he shut it to with a mighty bang ; and as 
it banged, he cursed Miss Essie aloud. 


350 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Essie was very silent on the journey, as her light 
chaise — the horse was young and her coachman knew 
she loved fast going — flew across the Phoenix Park, 
and swung down the steep hill where the old road to 
Lucan dips to the banks of the river. It was dark 
except for the light of the chaise-lamps. Francis was 
leaning back in the opposite corner. Having ad- 
dressed her once or twice and received no answer, 
at length, when they were far upon their road, he 
roused her by some remarks in the course of which 
he compared her unfavourably as a companion with 
a red Indian in a frost. Essie asked pardon humbly 
for her inattention. She might have alleged a head- 
ache, but small fibs did not come naturally to her, 
and in truth she was physically quite unaffected by 
her part in an interview that had shattered Mrs. John- 
son. So she merely said that something had occurred 
in Dublin which pre-occupied her mind. Perhaps the 
darkness gave Francis courage. 

“Essie,” he said shortly ; “ Moll had confidence in 
me. ’Tis a pity you have none/ 

“Now, Frank, how can you say that, when I show 
so much ? ” 

“ Yes, a very great deal. You tell me your money 
matters because you don’t value ’em any more, and 
believe that I can save you trouble. That’s your 
shrewdness, and shows no confidence except in mine.” 

“Well, I see you are still the old brat, never con- 
tented. ” 

“Pardon me, I was never discontented without 
a cause. Do I complain of living in the American 
wilderness, as you folks at home call it ? No, I like 
it, and so would you if you was there. ’Tis reason- 
able to complain when a man has a grievance that 
can be remedied, as mine can easily be. Sure I don’t 
flatter myself in thinking there’s no other relation you 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH. 


351 


have, male or female, you value as much as myself. 
How vastly well that sounds for me, to one that does 
not know ! ” 

Essie could not help smiling. 

“I am willing to allow as much/' she replied. 

“ ’Tis not a great deal,” returned Francis drily, 
“ when you can’t abide the others. But Moll thought 
more of me than that, Hess ; she asked me to stand 
to you in her place when she was gone.” 

“Nay, that’s impossible, Frank ! ” cried Essie. 

“You think I don’t love you as much,” he said. 

“How should you, dear cousin ? ” she answered 
gently. “Yet you love me much better than I de- 
serve. ” 

They were silent a few minutes. Then — 

“Essie,” he said, “ do you know that Moll sent for 
me to come home and take care of you ?” 

“No,” she cried, with a start; “indeed I did not. 
I am very sorry for ’t — I mean sorry you should have 
left your affairs and taken so long a journey on my ac- 
count, when you can be of little service to me, except 
in so far as I am honestly glad and comforted to have 
you.” 

“I might perhaps be of service to you, ” he returned. 
“ But you will not let me. You will not consider 
that we have known each other as well as brother 
and sister all the days of our lives, and that there’s 
none who has so good reason to love and serve you 
as I. ’Twas not on account of your land or your 
fortune — matters with which she knew you well able 
to deal — that Molly begged me to stay with you.” 

* < I know not what you would have, ” she murmured. 

“I would not be forced to watch you sending good 
years after bad ones, and never a word said. For 
Heaven’s sake, let there be no disguises between 
us, but tell me plainly whether you intend staying 
here and continuing the same mode of life. You know 
what I mean. But ’tis madness, and I’ll not leave 
you to it — I’ll hang first. Oh, I have a thousand 
things to say to you, Hess, and can’t say ’em, and yet 
I will.” 

“Not now, Francis,” she cried faintly, “wait a 


ESTHER VA NHOMRTGH. 


352 

little. I know not what I intend. I promise you 
shall hear my resolve, and even the reasons for ’t, when 
’tis made. But say no more on ’t now. I can bear 
nothing more this evening.” 

“I am content with your word of honour that you’ll 
put confidence in me. Indeed, there’s none has so 
great a regard for you, Essie, if you’d but believe it.” 

And so they passed to indifferent topics. 

Essie went to rest that night with a conscience, if 
not a heart, unburdened. She could not but believe 
Mrs. Johnson’s solemn assertion that_she was not 
married to Swift, but she did not feel very sure that 
she had got to the bottom of the matter. And now 
that the impulse which had taken her into Mrs. John- 
son’s presence was exhausted, she began to fear 
that Swift would be told of her proceedings, and be 
extremely angry with her. She lay awake half the 
night, thinking of what she could say to assuage his 
wrath. She decided to write to Mrs. Johnson and 
beg her to keep silence ; but when the morning came 
she could not stoop to that. It was a warm, grey 
day, with a noise of distant thunder rolling about the 
Wexford mountains, and an occasional swift heavy 
shower racing across the garden. She wandered out 
between these brief storms, pretending to garden, 
and then about the house, pretending to look to 
household trifles, but all the time a heavy weight 
seemed to be on her head, and a yet heavier one, a 
weight of terror, on her heart. About noon, Francis 
came in to transact business, and they laid out ledgers 
and papers on the book-room table ; but he com- 
plained that she was so inattentive she might as well 
not have been there. Before they had been long at 
work, she suddenly jumped up, and thrusting some 
papers into his hands, said to him with a startled 
face : — 

“Take these into the next room. Pray go at 
once.” 

She had heard the sound of hasty hoofs approaching 
the house along the hard high-road. A moment after 
there came a loud knock at the front gate. Francis 
went reluctantly, and left the door of the dining 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


353 


parlour ajar. He could not but guess whose was the 
heavy foot that immediately afterwards came striding 
into the house. Swift had flung his reins to the old 
man servant who opened the outer gate to him, and 
entering the house unannounced, burst into the book- 
room. 

Essie faced him half leaning on the table, as white 
as a sheet and with terror legible on every line of 
her face. Two days ago she had wondered in jest 
what the hundredth Cadenus, the one she had not 
seen, was like ; now she saw him. The awful look 
she had seen and dreaded before was mild com- 
pared to this, for it was not only a vision of black 
wrath that stood there frowning upon her, but some- 
thing worse ; something that cut into her heart, cold 
and sharp as a knife. It was, or seemed to be, Hate. 
An interminable minute the shape stood in the door- 
way, then making two strides forward, flung a sealed 
packet violently down on to the table. At the same 
instant Esther sunk on to her knees, as much because 
her trembling limbs refused to support her as for the 
purpose of supplication, and stretching out her hand, 
clutched him convulsively by the right arm, as he 
turned to go. 

“Cadenus ! ” she would have shrieked ; but nothing 
more was audible than a hoarse murmur that died in 
her throat. 

‘ ‘ Cadenus ! ” 

At the second attempt her lips framed the word ; 
but the voice was a mere whisper. 

He raised his left hand as though to loose her fin- 
gers from his sleeve, and loosening them herself, she 
let her arm drop to her side. In an instant he was 
gone. She heard the bang of the house-door and the 
outer gate, and then the hurrying hoofs of the big 
horse, just as she had heard them four minutes ago, 
only this time they were going instead of coming. 
When the last echo of the horse-hoofs had died away, 
Francis, listening in equal bewilderment both to the 
sounds and the silence of those few minutes, heard a 
strange cry — a long low moaning cry, less human 
than like that of some inarticulate suffering creature. 

23 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


354 

Yet it seemed to proceed from the book-room. He 
went in, and coming hastily round the corner of the 
open door, almost trod on Essie’s hand. She had 
fallen face forwards on the ground, and the hand 
stretched out above her head held a torn wrapper, 
which seemed to have contained the sheaf of papers, 
that had slipped after her from the table, and lay 
strewn upon her body. Francis called her name, but 
there was no response, and on raising her head he 
saw she was perfectly unconscious. 

Swift had once been used to scoff good-naturedly 
at Esther if she told him that she was sick ; but hers 
was that strange kind of good health which has a 
poor constitution behind it, and the sufferings and 
anxieties of the last few years had told upon it. For 
some days after her last interview, if so it could be 
called, with Swift, she kept her room and saw no one. 
When she reappeared, both Mrs. Conollyand Francis 
were startled at the change in her. To herself it ap- 
peared not so much that she was another person, as 
that she was dead ; a corpse that moved and spoke 
and even remembered, but to which some essential 
of life was lacking. It no more occurred to her that 
she could take up again that past existence of hers 
than it could have done if the grave lay between her 
and it. For years she had believed, at first rightly, 
afterwards mistakenly, that Swift loved her better 
than he dared allow. Time, circumstance, and, last 
but not least, the violence of her own passion had 
completely worn out his sentiment for her. The 
moment of awakening had come. She saw that her 
love was unreturned ; yet more, she believed that she 
had always been indifferent to her idol, and was now 
an object of hatred to him. Her twelve-years’ pas- 
sion, the torture and the inspiration of her life, fell 
dead, and with it died the greater part of herself. 

For many days and nights following that first and 
last meeting of the two Esthers, the thoughts of each 
ran in much the same channel. Esther Johnson, for 
all her philosophy, was unable to refrain from bestow- 
ing a good deal of useless and painful reflection on 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


355 

the disappointments and disadvantages of her con- 
nection with Swift, while the disaster and humiliation 
that had attended hers seemed to Esther Vanhomrigh, 
as she lay staring at the darkness night after night, 
to be branded on her flesh. Yet each one, entertain- 
ing the last of the common stock of lovers’ delusions, 
said to herself that after all Swift was the only man 
she could ever have loved. 

If in the night Essie tossed on her bed, or paced 
the room in a restless agony of thought, in the day- 
time a great apathy of body and mind had fallen 
upon her. Her constitutional indolence, no longer 
counteracted by strong interests, seemed all that was 
left of the old Esther. The autumn was cold and 
rainy, and she spent most of the day on the stool be- 
fore the fire that had been her favourite seat, but the 
habitual book was no longer open before her, or if 
open, was unread. She never left the grounds, even 
to visit the few poor families whom she had found fit 
objects for her charity among an innumerable crowd 
of claimants. For, generally speaking, the dirt and 
untruthfulness and disorderliness of the Irish poor 
offended her more than their wit and shrewdness and 
naviefb amused her. Sometimes she would leave the 
fire and go out through the parlour window without any 
protection against damp and cold, as had always been 
her custom, and stroll aimlessly round the garden, or 
stand on the old bridge and watch the swollen Liffey 
tearing under the high arches, tumbling amid its yel- 
low foam, dead leaves and mats of dry reeds and 
broken branches. She would go to the bower, too, 
and stand with a strange apathy in the very place, 
leaning on the very branch, where she had stood on 
that September day when she and Swift had last 
visited it together. The bower above and around 
and the island below, turned golden, and sheltering 
each other, kept their glory later than the meadow 
trees, which the stormy winds and rains stripped bare 
earlier than usual. But in time they too laid it by, 
and the slender yellow leaves of the willows, and the 
small fretted orange or red leaves of the thorns, were 
mingled in the stream and rushed on under the bridge, 


ESTHER V A NHOMRIGH. 


35 « 

or were heaped by the eddying river in its miniature 
bays and inlets. The russet foliage of the oak re- 
mained longer to roof in the bower ; but the wind 
and rain moaned and pattered through it on to the 
rock below. Still if it did not actually rain, Essie 
continuecKo come thither in her black dress and thin 
kerchief, though week by week the full curves of her 
shape fell away and grew nearer to hollow leanness, 
and the pink of her cheeks was replaced by two spots 
of hard bright colour. 

Meantime Francis, lost now to all thoughts of what 
might be said about it, hovered round her, putting 
shawls for her that she did not use and food on her 
plate that she would not eat, and inviting her to walks 
and rides she would not take, though she never failed 
to thank him for his care and remonstrate with him 
for losing his time with her. But something more 
was needed than this kind of care. If anything 
could have warmed the icy corpse of Esther back to 
life, it would have been a warm stream of human 
tenderness, flowing out perpetually towards her in 
expressions of love, in soft beguiling ways and in- 
stinctive adaptation to her moods. Her melancholy 
condition and loneliness, except for himself, made 
Francis more sensible than ever of his deep attach- 
ment to her, and he knew vaguely what she wanted, 
but he could not give it her. All his life up till now 
he had been accustomed, first as a matter of temper- 
ament, then as a matter of pride, to hide all that was 
warm and kind in him under a cold and unkind mask, 
and now in bitter helplessness he strove to alter him- 
self and could not. A caressing word upon his lips 
sounded idiotic in his own ears and unnatural in hers. 
If love had burst into his life as something new, it 
might have altered all that ; but his love for Esther 
was part of his old self, and to her less than to any 
one else could he be different. 

To be passive and helpless in the face of a crisis 
was a new experience to him. But he dared not take 
any decided step, lest it should be a wrong one, and 
had Essie been capable of noticing anything, she 
must have noticed a transformation in him ; for he 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGn . 


357 

grew silent and almost humble. He never asked her 
about that strange apparition of Swift, for he had 
observed enough to be satisfied that it had signified 
a rupture between them. The papers which he had 
picked up from the floor and locked into her desk on 
the day when he had found her lying unconscious, 
were evidently letters of her own, and the thick fair 
curl that had fallen down among them had no doubt 
been cut years ago from her young head, with a bad- 
inage that had not wholly masked some underlying 
sentiment. The Dean had quitted the field ; so far 
so good — but what a wreck had he left behind him 1 

After this state of things had lasted without any 
change for nearly four months, Francis at length be- 
haved in a manner that he despised : he went and 
confided his wishes and difficulties, and Esthers 
melancholy condition to Mrs. Conolly. Mrs. Conolly 
had long had uneasy suspicions concerning Miss Van- 
homrigh and the' Dean, whom she was as willing as 
Francis could desire to credit with the whole blame 
of the matter. This was the secret of her anxiety to 
see Miss Vanhomrigh well married, for otherwise she 
was not one of that class of matrons who regard all 
the disengaged men and women of their acquaint- 
ance as so much marrying material. When Francis 
had told her his story in an embarrassed and unex- 
pansive manner, yet with a sincerity of pain and 
anxiety which he could not disguise, and when she 
had amplified it by her own guesses and observations, 
she solemnly declared that her fancy could not have 
devised anything so good as this marriage, which, 
besides providing Miss Vanhomrigh with a good 
husband, would remove her far from the possibility 
of renewed intercourse with Swift, and from all that 
could recall to her the faults and the misfortunes of 
her youth. 

“ Describe to her your solitude, Mr. Mordaunt, 
she said, when Francis had declared for the tenth 
time that Essie had a regard for him, but that he 
despaired of persuading her to look upon him as a 
possible husband. “ Describe to her the horrors and 
dangers of the American wilderness 1 ” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


358 

“ Danger ! Nonsense ! ” interjected Francis. 

“The absence of all that can make life agreeable,” 
continued Mrs. Conolly ; “and see if she'll not be 
eager to share all with you.” 

“What, madam? You would have me appeal to 
her pity ? ” 

“Yes, Mr. Mordaunt, for her sake. I am certain 
she'll make you a good wife, for she's one of whom 
you may say that when she sets her hand to the 
plough she looks not back. Yet 'tis more for her 
sake than for the difference 'twill make to you in that 
savage — yes, I will call it savage — country, that I 
earnestly hope for this marriage. If you love her, 
lay pride on one side, and through her love if you can, 
but through her pity if you cannot, win her — for her 
own sake win her.” 

Francis put up his lip, and could not promise to do 
anything of the sort. 

She went to see Miss Vanhomrigh with him a few 
days after, and found her on the terrace outside the 
summer parlour. 

“What will you do when your cousin is gone?” 
she asked Essie, when Francis had stepped down 
into the garden for a minute. “Sure you'll not let 
him cross the seas alone and leave you here alone 
too. 'T would be the foolishest thing.” 

“Would it not be foolisher, dear madam, to keep 
him here idle, and even in danger should he be recog- 
nised ? ” 

“'Twould be madness. But there's no such 
reason why you should not accompany him.” 

“Why, Madam Conolly, you forget we are not in 
fact very nearly related. The good people in the 
Plantations would talk.” 

“I meant of course that you should marry him.” 

“Poor Francis ! Would not that be a little unfair 
to him ? ” 

“My dear, he wishes it,” whispered Mrs. Conolly, 
pressing her hand as Francis rejoined them. And in 
a few minutes she took her leave. 

“What were you saying to my cousin just now, 
madam?” asked Francis, as he handed her down the 
terrace steps. 


ESTHER VA NH0MRIGI1. 


359 

“I was saying that you wished to marry her,” 
replied Mrs. Conolly indifferently. Francis ejacu- 
lated something that did not seem expressive of grati- 
tude. 

“ Lord ! No thanks, I beg,” saicl Mrs. Conolly, 
with a little smile. “Sure, ’twas not for your sake I 
did it, but for hers. I was convinced you’d never do 
it yourself.” 

“You take me for a timid man, Madam Conolly.” 

“ By no means, but for a lover so half-hearted and 
cold that, were't not for the happy circumstance of 
your dwelling in America, I’d by no means desire a 
woman I valued to marry you.” 

She spoke partly in jest, but also partly in earnest. 
Francis reddened, but when he returned to Esther he 
was unusually pale. It was a mild December day, 
and she sat listlessly on the balustrade of the terrace, 
looking away over the river and the meadows to the 
blue Dublin mountains. Francis stood in front of 
her. 

“Did you believe what Madam Conolly told you, 
Hess ? ” he asked. 

She turned her eyes on him with a puzzled look. 

“What was it?” she said. Mrs. Conolly’s whis- 
pered information had made no impression upon her, 
and she was not thinking about it. Indeed, she could 
hardly be said to think of anything in those long days 
of brooding, and even at night her thoughts and feel- 
ings had ceased to be very clear and poignant, though 
fever and a hacking cough kept her awake. 

“She told you I wished to marry you, and it is 
true. If she said that I loved you dearly, that was 
true also.” 

She still looked at him with that little puzzled con- 
traction of the brows that was familiar to him. 

“Mrs. Conolly cannot let me be,” she said; “but 
indeed you need not listen to her, Francis. You have 
always made too much of the trifle of kindness you 
owe us. I do not wish to marry, and if I did, for 
you to marry me out of gratitude. — why, ’twould be 
ridiculous. ” 

“Good heavens, Hess!” he cried, coming nearer 
to her, “ can’t you believe that I love you?” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


360 

She sighed wearily, as one who is obliged to talk of 
what does not interest her. 

“I know you do in reason, Frank,” she answered. 
“But you don’t want to marry me. Mrs. Conolly 
has been talking to you. Why can’t she leave me 
alone ? ” 

“Now listen to me, Essie,” he said, standing up 
close to her and taking her hand. “Confound Mrs. 
Conolly ; don’t mention her again. Ten years ago I 
said to myself that I would get you for my wife, if 
ever I had a chance. Have I got a chance now, 
Hess? Do try and believe I love you.” 

“ No, no ; you can’t,” she whispered, turning pale. 

‘ ‘ Hess, I can — I do. ” 

She wrenched her hand from his grasp, for a mo- 
ment roused from her apathy. 

“You wouldn’t if you knew,” she moaned. “Not 
if you knew how I have spent myself in worshipping 
that man — oh, much worse ! — how I grovelled at his 
feet, and he all the time hating me.” 

Francis stepped back and silenced her by a quick 
gesture. 

“Hush,” he said almost sternly, “never tell me a 
word of him ! ’Tis folly, for you can say somewhat 
to give me pain, but nothing to alter my regard for 
you. For God’s sake let all this be clean forgotten 
between us. There’s new country waiting for you, 
Essie. You’ll love it very well. There’s little com- 
pany there, but you never was fond of company, 
and there’s plenty of work to be done, such as you 
was used to love. And I must tell you myself, since 
there’s no one else to do it, that you will find yourself 
and me persons of consequence out there, and all the 
people coming to us for counsel and assistance from 
as many square miles of country as there are in Ulster 
and Leinster put together. You used to say you’d 
love to be somebody, Hess, and on my honour you 
may be a queen out there. Then ’tis such a whole- 
some air — not like this chill place ; you’ll soon lose 
your cough and be as strong as ever you was. ’Tis 
certain you’d do well to come with me, Hess — I can’t 
take a ‘No,’” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH . 


361 

Her momentary agitation had passed away; she 
listened quietly with bowed head. She remained 
silent so for a minute or two after he had finished 
speaking, and he fancied his words had not been 
without effect. Then she looked up at him with a 
strange look, half dull, half sad, and shook her head 
slowly. 

“ ’Tis too late,” she said. “You are very good, 
Frank ; once I should have liked your new country 
well enough.” He cried out against her “too late,” 
but she continued talking in a spiritless way, yet as 
one stating some plain fact. “Yes, it is too late, 
and I will tell you why. I dare be sworn you think 
there’s no such thing as a broken heart ; I was used 
myself to think it a bit of cant or ladies’ vapours. I 
know better now, for my own heart is broken. It 
should not be so, I allow ; I must be a poor weak 
creature for this to have happened. I see very well 
that what you say is wise as well as kind, and I 
should be very fortunate if I could do as you advise ; 
but, my dear, ’tis of no manner of use. I am fit for 
nothing more in this world though I should be thirty 
or forty years in it, as I very well may be. ” 

There was something dreadful in the dead calm of 
her speech and look ; it almost carried conviction to 
Francis’ unwilling mind, but he withstood the im- 
pression. Sitting down by her on the balustrade, he 
endeavoured to argue with her, but in vain. She 
only shook her head at his reasoning. At length he 
was reduced to silence and despair, when suddenly 
Mrs. Conolly’s advice occurred to him. Must he 
appeal to her pity? Yes ; for her own sake. So he 
made the last sacrifice of his pride, and pleaded with 
her to come for his sake, because if she did not his 
life would always be solitary — more solitary than 
she could imagine. 

She smiled faintly. 

“Not always, Frank. You are young for a man, 
and look at me — I am an old, old woman. Some day 
you will get a young wife, and live happy ever after.” 

He answered impatiently — 

‘‘ Women seldom come my way, and when they 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


362 

do they don’t love me, nor I them. Besides, you know 
me, and with how cold a heart I am cursed, so that 
I never loved but very few persons in my life. There 
are just two alive now I love, and one is his Lordship, 
and t’other— well, that other I love incomparably 
more, and. always shall do, so long as I live.” 

“ I am sorry for you, Frank,” she said, “ and yet 
I am not. For I can’t, however I try, be truly sorry 
about anything. I used to laugh at you when you 
was a boy, for thinking whenever you was sick that 
you was going to die, and now 1 am as foolish my- 
self, for it seems to me that I am going to die.” 

He threw his arm around her, not caressingly, but 
to drag her into the house. 

“Good God!” he cried; “you must leave this 
cursed climate, or ’twill kill you as it killed Molly. ” 

‘ ‘ Ah, ” she said. “So you too think it killed Molly. 
I have sometimes thought so since she died. In that 
case ’twas my fault that she died, for ’twas my doing 
that we settled in Ireland ; she never loved it very 
well.” 

They had by this time reached the glass doors into 
the parlour. 

“Essie,” he said solemnly, “if you continue to 
give way to such splenetic fancies, you will end a 
madwoman. ” 

“I was a madwoman, Frank, for the best part of 
my life. ’Twould have been a mercy then to have 
sent me to Bedlam. But now I am quite sane, and 
know very well what I have been and what I am. Oh, 
Frank, you must be mad yourself if you really love 
me. Let us not talk of it any more.” 

But Francis, having once begun his wooing of 
Esther, carried it on with the energy and persistence 
that marked him in all his undertakings. In earlier 
days such obstinacy would have roused a rebellious 
temper in Esther, but “ Governor Huff” was now dead 
and buried. She shed a few weary tears over the 
matter, and finally got her own way by partial yield- 
ing. He was to go away and leave her to think it 
over. In the spring, on his way back to America, he 
was to return to Cellbridge, and then perhaps — very 
likely, she would do as he wished. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


363 

So foolish a thing is the human heart that it was 
with a feeling of relief Esther watched the ship sail 
out of Dublin Bay, which bore away the only creature 
that loved her, except two old servants. She was 
glad to get back home and brood wholly undisturbed, 
even Mrs. Conolly having gone to Dublin. Soon 
after Christmas there came a heavy fall of snow and 
an iron frost that seemed as if it would never go. 
For weeks the roads were blocked and every village 
thrown upon its own resources. Neither news nor 
visitors came near the lonely house at Cellbridge. 
The black trees broke under the frozen snow, and 
their great branches lay across the garden paths or 
hung into the river, and caught as in a net the pieces 
of ice it brought down on its chill dark current. And 
sometimes Esther wandered out to the bridge, and 
watched the icy river or scattered food for the freezing 
birds, but oftener she sat idle by the fire. All the 
winter there was no change in her, except that every 
day she grew leaner, and coughed more, and suffered 
more pain. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

When Swift had recovered the “bad head” that had 
followed on his angry rupture with Esther Vanhom- 
righ, he expected to find a letter from her full of 
appeal and remonstrance, or at least reproach. He 
had fully made up his mind to return it unread, yet 
he was glad not to find it. Weeks went by, and still 
she made no sign. At length then his life was free 
from those continual claims which he could neither 
deny nor allow. He had hardly guessed how com- 
pletely Esthers sympathy and admiration had ceased 
to compensate him for the worry and diversion of in- 
terest his connection with her caused him. He who 
prided himself justly on the faithfulness of his attach- 
ments was a little ashamed to think how this great 
friendship of his, that had once been but too warm, 
was now quite cold ; a dead burden to be thrown out 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


364 

of his life with a sigh of relief. But the fact must be 
acknowledged, with shame or without it ; he was 
thankful to have shaken himself free from this ten- 
years’ entanglement. He walked the streets with a 
lighter step, and gave more sugar-plums and half- 
pence to the children, and rallied the apple-women 
more good-naturedly than he had ever been known 
to do ; and every one said how hearty the Dean was 
looking. Mrs. Johnson, too, was brilliant in spite of 
the bad winter. Since she would not let him speak 
to her on the subject, he had written her a letter asking 
her pardon a thousand times for the pain he had caused 
her, telling her that he was fully resolved never again 
to hold any communication with that poor crazed 
creature “that shall be nameless,” and imploring her 
to exercise all her powers of forgetfulness on the 
matter. Hetty did not, never again could love him 
as she had once done, but she was neither analytical 
nor repining, and found another kind of happiness in 
his complete devotion to her ; a devotion as tender 
as he had shown in the days of her youth, and much 
more respectful and unselfish. She was formed for 
society, and life became very pleasant to her as the 
increasing number of Swift’s admirers and friends 
widened the circle of her own. He was no longer 
a lonely man in Dublin, except with the inevitable 
loneliness of his intellect and character. If it was 
beyond Mrs. Johnson’s power to understand or 
genuinely care for many of his interests, there were 
others about him now to supply her deficiencies ; 
young eager minds looking to him for inspiration. 
He threw off that winter in mere light-heartedness a 
dozen anonymous ballads, epigrams and broadsheets 
on trifling occasions, which have mostly disappeared 
with the trunks of a long-past generation of travellers. 
They served to keep his pen sharp for more serious 
warfare, as it was reported that the English Parlia- 
ment intended before long to make a fresh attack on 
the liberties of Ireland, through the coinage. All 
patriotic eyes turned towards the great Dean, and he, 
like the war-house of his favourite Book of Job, 
scented the battle from afar and cried “ Ha, ha ! ” at 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 365 

the sound of the trumpet. For full six months he 
rejoiced in his freedom, and never so much as thought 
of Esther Vanhomrigh. At length the persistent 
black east winds had ceased to blow, and as he rode 
into the country, he noticed that the catkins and 
primroses were out in the hedges ; then he could not 
help thinking, and thinking kindly, of her who was 
used to have an unusual delight in the spring. Not 
that he wished to renew his intercourse with her, 
which he saw clearly now to have been disadvanta- 
geous to her as well as troublesome to himself, but 
he hoped she was gone over to England, since he 
had heard nothing of her this winter. There no 
doubt she was nursing Mrs. Purvis, and would soon 
inherit another fortune and marry some one ; perhaps 
“little Master,” her cousin, who was an ugly, dis- 
agreeable fellow, but honest enough. These sup- 
positions served as an anodyne to any little uneasi- 
ness of conscience that might have been caused by 
the recollection of his once esteemed and adored 
Missessy. The sunshine that had long been missing 
from the earth was very pleasant to feel, and his head 
seemed boiling with an unusual number of ideas as 
he trotted along, or smoked a surreptitious pipe in 
his library window-seat. The world was going so 
well with him that had he retained enough of his 
usual pessimism, he would have said something un- 
fortunate must be about to happen. 

One Sunday late in May, Patrick was dressing him 
for the Cathedral, and he was endeavouring to forget 
his amusement over the complete success of his last 
literary fraud, and attune his mind to the sacred 
function in which he was about to take part. Patrick 
was talking ; he always talked, and the Dean listened 
or not according to his humour. On this day he had 
not paid any attention to Patrick’s discourse, till the 
name Vanhomrigh attracted fyis attention. 

“ Eh ? H’m ! What was that you was saying, you 
chatter pie ? ” 

“ Thunder and turf! His riverence gets hard ot 
hearing ! I was saying, your honour,” and here 
Patrick raised his voice to a shout, “ I met Miss Van- 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


366 

homrigh’s man in the town to-day, and he tould me 
his poor lady was mighty sick — bless her purty face ! 
— and he afther fetching the doctor.” 

“Why, I thought she was gone to England. ” 

“ Sure she never went, your riverence. She’s been 
in a mighty queer way all this year, it seems ; near 
crazy they do say ; and now, poor lady, she’s in the 
article of death. ’Twas her own man told me so. 
Lord, Lord ! And her such an illigant crayture, and 
such a fine spirited way wid her too ! ” 

“Pooh, Patrick ! You servants love to exaggerate. 
No doubt when I have a bad head you tell all the 
footmen of your acquaintance the poor Dean’s in the 
article of death. Put my bands straight. Pshaw ! I 
say Miss Vanhomrigh ’ll live to a hundred ! My hat, 
I say : the bell will be down and you still jabbering. 
I know not whose curse we bear — ’tis certainly not 
the curse of Adam — when we must needs feed this 
pack of lying varlets.” 

And still muttering he went out. 

But he could not banish from his mind this bit of 
news, probably false, since all Patrick’s news was 
false, which he had heard. It pursued him through 
the cathedral service, and he kept wondering how far 
it was true while mechanically repeating the usual 
prayers. He found himself taking it more and more 
seriously, and giving way to a strange kind of horror, 
a something like remorse, although he knew of no 
just grounds for such a feeling. While he stood up 
in his stall in the choir listening to the anthem, 
which always bored him and to-day was unusually 
long, this feeling increased upon him, and he was 
conscious of a throbbing in the head and a general 
tension of the nerves, such as was often symptomatic 
of one of his attacks. The organ was playing very 
low, and one boy was singing with a pure but some- 
what veiled soprano voice, inexpressive as a bird’s and 
sounding thinly in the large crowded church. Sud- 
denly, high and wild above the low booming of the 
organ and the thin trickle of song, there rung out a 
shriek — a woman’s shriek of agony, at once hoarse 
and shrill. The sound gave him a terrible shock ; he 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


leaned far out from his stall and looked down the 
aisle to the west end, whence the shriek appeared to 
have come, and there he saw a woman in a white 
dress wringing her hands and weeping wildly. He 
distinctly saw Esther Vanhomrigh. Forgetful of the 
anthem, the dignity of his office and the many eyes 
upon him, he left his place and stalked down the 
whole length of the cathedral. Many of the people 
had left their seats, and a little crowd was collected 
at the west end. 

“Where is she?” asked the Dean sternly, scarcely 
lowering his voice. A verger, more decorous than 
his superior, pointed to a poor woman of the shop- 
keeping class, stout and elderly, who lay on the 
ground in convulsions, while a doctor, kneeling at 
her side, cut open her sleeve preparatory to bleeding 
her, 

“ Who shrieked and caused this tumult ? ” 

“Twas her, your reverence. Faith, the poor lady 
is in a strong fit and couldn't hinder herself, Mr. 
Dean.” 

“Ay, but the lady in white? ” 

No one had seen a lady in white, unless a child 
sitting on a bench outside the pews, who had jumped 
up to see what was the matter, could be considered 
a lady. The doors were closed, and, looking care- 
fully round the church, he satisfied himself that there 
was no one present resembling Miss Vanhomrigh. 
The blood that horror had frozen in his veins flowed 
on with a leap ; he blushed a dark red as he walked up 
the aisle more hastily than he had come down it, and 
regained his stall as the anthem was ended. What a 
trick had his short sight and his fancy combined to 
play him ! It was ludicrous. He was in that excited 
condition when a very poor joke or no joke at all will 
sometimes strike a person as irresistibly funny. His 
demeanour -during the service was as a rule punctil- 
iously reverent, but when, immediately on reaching 
his seat, he kneeled down to join in the prayer for the 
Kings Majesty, he could no longer restrain his amuse- 
ment. He seldom felt any inclination to laugh aloud, 
but just on this occasion he could have made the 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


368 

choir ring with his mirth. Fortunately he was able to 
moderate it to some extent, though not to stop it. As 
he kneeled with his face plunged in the voluminous 
folds of his sleeves, the curls of his peruke continued 
to tremble and his broad shoulders to shake and 
heave in a prolonged paroxysm of laughter which 
shocked himself ; on account not of its cause, but of 
its impropriety in the sacred building. The canon 
sitting next to him, who was accustomed to hear him 
following the prayers in a whisper and joining loudly 
in the Amens, could not but observe his unusual de- 
meanour. Knowing him to be a kind-hearted man, 
and supposing him to have gone to the other end of 
the cathedral with a view to assisting the sick person 
there, he took the Dean’s emotion to be of an oppo- 
site nature to that which it really was. As the canon 
happened to be the only one of the chapter who under- 
stood that he had a great man for his dean, he took note 
of the little incident, and added it to his private col- 
lection of anecdotes, illustrating the compassionate 
nature of the most remorseless of satirists. It is fair 
to say that the rest were more genuine. 

By the time the prayers were over he had recovered 
both from his untimely merriment and the disquieting 
effect of Patrick’s bit of news. He would send a note 
to a cousin of Miss Vanhomrigh’s in Dublin and ask 
after her, but in all probability it was some very 
slight complaint from which she was suffering. So 
he smiled with particular cheerfulness at Ppt. wait- 
ing for him as usual at the south door, just on the 
spot which he afterwards chose for her grave, and 
they walked over to the Deanery together ; Dingley 
too must accompany them. He did not always post- 
pone dinner till after the afternoon prayers, but to- 
day there were some gentlemen from a distance 
expected, and the dinner had been put late to suit 
their convenience. Before it was over he received a 
line from Miss Vanhomrigh’s cousin, stating that she 
had been a little indisposed but that nothing had 
been heard of her for some weeks, and “no news 
is good news.” Mrs. Johnson was rather tired and 
went home early, but the gentlemen lingered on 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


369 

in the dining-room till late in the evening, not 
indeed drinking heavily, which the Dean did not per- 
mit, but enjoying a regale of coffee and conversation. 

Dr. Sheridan was there, and he and Swift exchanged 
volleys of punning wit, such as now delights none 
but the writer of burlesques, but from which intel- 
ligent persons in those days contrived to extract 
amusement. The talk, however, was far from being 
all of such a nature, for Mr. Ford had just received a 
letter from Erasmus Lewis giving a detailed account 

of how the man Wood had bought from the K ’s 

mistress — the very sum paid was mentioned — the 
privilege of issuing a new copper coinage for Ireland ; 
how it was to be much more debased than the Eng- 
lish, even if this Wood fulfilled his contract honestly, 
and whereas in England the copper coinage was 
scarce more than a hundredth part of the currency, in 
Ireland it was proposed to make it as much as a 
quarter. Something of all this the audience knew, 
but their wrath rose as the details, some old and 
some fresh and some false or exaggerated, were mar- 
shalled before them. Dr. Winter, who was a math- 
ematician, whipped out a piece of paper and speedily 
proved it would cost the country fifty thousand 
pounds. 

“Why, sir,” said a gentleman from Wexford, with 
an oath, “ all the gold and silver in the country will 
immediately find its way into the pockets of landlords 
in England, and we that live on our own estates must 
be content with dirty stuff, which none that are not 
obliged will say ‘ thank you ’ for, and which will be 
worth nothing in exchange with the money of other 
countries. ” 

“’Twill be the ruin of our commerce,” cried an- 
other. “But that no doubt was Walpole’s chief 
design in the matter.” 

“ ’Twas Sunderland sold the privilege to Kendal,” 
interposed Delany. 

“ May be ; but doubtless Walpole moved the fat 
Vrow to demand it,” said Swift. “ Ay, ay, wherever 
there’s wickedness and corruption, you may take 

your oath Flimnap Walpole I mean's in it.” 

24 


370 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“ Let’s drink to his damnation. Pass the bottle ! ” 
cried Mr. Ford, and filled his glass. 

“And to Wood’s and the German hag’s,” added his 
neighbour, surveying the diminished contents of the 
bottle somewhat anxiously. 

‘ ‘ If we must drink damnation to every one that’s 
tarred with that brush, my cellar will not last it out, 
nor will there be lying room under my table for the 
fallen,” said Swift drily. “ But ’tis not persons, ’tis 
the system that’s most damnable. The king’s mis- 
tress has as good a right as the king’s ministers to sell 
that which belongs to neither of ’em. How long are 
we to be treated like slaves ? As long, I suppose, as 
we consent to it. What does it matter to us if this 
ironmonger coins his soul and body into halfpence 
for us, if we don’t take ’em ? ” 

“Well said!” cried several; “Mr. Dean, we’ll 
beat Walpole yet.” 

“ I fear ’t will be a difficult undertaking,” observed 
Delany, who was patriotic, but somewhat wanting 
in courage and enthusiasm. 

“ Difficult ! ” ejaculated the Dean. “Ay, there are 
plenty of men fancy an enterprise condemned as 
impossible when they have pronounced it to be dif- 
ficult. If ’twere easy you’d not find me troubling to 
undertake it.” 

“ How do you purpose to begin ? ” asked Winter. 

The Dean shook his head and smiled. 

“The oracle is dumb, Winter.” 

“I wish,” said another, “there was some. chance 
of Walpole coming soon to the gallows, and then 
I doubt we should find he had left as edifying a 
last speech and confession as the late lamented 
Elliston.” 

This was a notorious street-robber, executed about 
a year before, whose purported last dying speech and 
confession, wherein he declared himself to have de- 
nounced all his old associates, so that they might be 
proceeded against if they did not abandon their evil 
practices, had been circulated in Dublin, and had 
produced consternation among the criminal classes. 
But the better informed suspected the genuineness of 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


371 

the Dying Speech and Confession, and even thought 
they could guess its real author. 

‘ ‘ Then should we be as free of tyranny and cor- 
ruption in Dublin, as we are now of street-robbery,” 
said Delany with a smile. 

“’Twas an excellent thought, whoever it belonged 
to, to print the rogue's confession,” returned Swift 
gravely. “ I'm told there’s scarce been the least theft 
on the streets this twelvemonth.” 

“'Tis an odd thing, though, the fellow held so 
good a pen,” said Winter slily ; “I cannot help sus- 
pecting that if Walpole should attempt the same, their 
styles would be found to resemble each other sur- 
prisingly.” 

“ Your riverence,” interposed Patrick, in an agitated 
whisper, “there’s a gintleman without that’s afther 
seeing you on a matther of life and death, and there’s 
no denying him at all, at all. Indeed, sir, he ? ll take 
no denial.” 

Swift had changed his seat immediately after din- 
ner, in order to hob-nob more freely with Sheridan, 
and the door, which Patrick held wide open, was 
immediately behind him. The untimely visitor in his 
impatience had followed Patrick and stood but a 
little way back from the threshold of the room. The 
light from a sconce near fell on his face. Swift had not 
turned his head, but lifting his eyes as Patrick spoke, 
he met the stranger’s eyes looking out at him from 
a mirror on the opposite wall. These eyes meeting 
his so unexpectedly, the apparition of that white stern 
face arising like a ghost opposite him in the midst of 
his festivity, startled and disturbed him as much as 
though it had been the ancient writing on the wall. 
He turned and made sure it really was Miss Van- 
homrigh’s cousin Francis ; then he flung away his 
dinner-napkin and stepped out into the hall, closing 
the door sharply behind him. 

“Is Miss Vanhomrigh sick?” he asked of his vis- 
itor, without ceremony. 

“ Dying,” replied Francis shortly. His eyes were 
worn and red with watching and secret tears, and his 
whole face looked older by several years than it had 
done in the autumn. 


3 72 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 


‘ ‘Impossible ! ” cried Swift, turning pale. “ Good 
God, sir, there must be some hope/’ 

“Noneat all. Tis a question of a few hours,” 
returned Francis. “She is urgent to see you. I 
think she is wandering, but I could not forbear prom- 
ising to bring you.” 

Swift was deeply affected. 

* ‘ This is terrible, ” he said. 4 ‘ Poor, poor Missessy ! 
Poor dear child ! ’Tis so sudden I cannot feel it 
true.” 

“There is not a moment to lose,” said Francis. 
“If you mean to come, order your best horse out at 
once. Mine is having a mash, and will go back as 
fast as he came.” 

The Dean hastily gave the order. He would not 
return to the dining-room lest his agitation should be 
visible, but rushed upstairs to change his gown for 
a riding-dress, while Francis went out to fetch his 
horse from the stables of a neighbouring inn. In an 
incredibly short space of time they were crossing the 
bridge at a sharp trot, side by side. The Dean would 
have liked to inquire further concerning Essies 
condition, but he had an unaccountable feeling of 
embarrassment in addressing Francis. Besides, the 
noise of the streets, which on this fine moonlight 
evening were full of traffic, seemed an unfitting ac- 
companiment to conversation so solemn and distress- 
ing as theirs must needs be. So he wrapped himself 
in reflections that every moment became more poig- 
nant. They took the way by Phoenix Park, and 
Francis being a little ahead when they arrived, had 
no sooner touched the turf than he let his horse break 
into a gallop. The Dean’s big horse, which though 
naturally not so fast was fresher, started eagerly in 
pursuit, and the two dark shapes flew on neck and neck 
acrossthe pale open stretches ofthepark, tilltheground 
dipped and they were blotted out in the dark shadows 
of some thorn-trees. When they regained the road 
they breathed their horses, and the Dean almost tim- 
idly adressed his companion. 

‘ ‘ Is not this sickness, sir, very sudden ? ” 

“ No, sir,” replied Francis. “ This violent fever is 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


373 

'sudden, but she has been sick ever since the autumn, 
and has taken no manner of care of her health till 
very lately. I endeavoured to made her more care- 
ful of herself while I was with her, but to no purpose/' 

“Ah, poor child ! " cried the Dean, no longer able 
to restrain his tears. “She was used to have such 
good health ; no doubt she could not believe she 
was ill.” 

“No, sir, that was not it!” returned Francis. 
“ But she was indifferent whether she was ill or well, 
or lived or died. Why do you weep, Mr. Dean ? 
Was not you just as indifferent ? I never heard that 
you made the least inquiry after her.” 

“ Mr. Mordaunt,” replied Swift, with a kind of dig- 
nified humility, ‘ 4 you have the right to reproach me, 
for you have been a true friend to poor Missessy, 
and I have not. I have been tender when I should 
have been severe, and hard when indulgence would 
have better become me. But indeed, Mr. Mordaunt, 
it has been more for her sake and another's than my 
own, that I have refrained from a reconciliation with 
her. You know, perhaps, we quarrelled.” 

“I know you broke her heart,” cried Francis, “if 
you call that quarrelling. You have killed her, Dr. 
Swift, as certainly as though you had put a bullet in 
her.” 

As he had ridden silent at his companion's side, 
his former relations to Esther had presented them- 
selves to Swift in a new light. This was partly owing 
to the shock of this summons to her death-bed, and 
partly because he had considered the subject so little 
during the last eight months that the mist of old 
habit and sentiment, which had once obscured it to 
the eyes of his judgment, had had time to clear away. 
He condemned himself, but this last condemnation 
was more than his reason or his feelings could 
accept. 

“Sir,” he said, “you are a young man, and grief 
and resentment lead you too far. I fear 'tis true that 
Miss Vanhomrigh was more affected by the unhappy 
difference between us than I at all guessed ; but a 
broken heart was never yet found out of a play or a 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


374 

romance. Believe me, poor Essie will live if she has 
no other disease than that. ” 

“ She has,” replied Francis, “ and yet I confidently 
believe that were it not for you, we that love her 
should now see her as well and strong as ever she 
was in England. I cannot, sir, affect a desire to 
spare you grief and pain. You spared her none. I 
tell you that when I left her at Christmas she was 
utterly reckless of her health, and seemed to desire* 
death if she could be said to desire anything. She 
drove me most unwillingly from her side, and I went, 
hoping that my absence would cause her in some de- 
gree to miss me, and that on my return she would 
consent to come with me as my wife to a country 
where the air was wholesome for her complaint, and 
where she might forget her misfortunes. She wrote 
to me scarcely at all, but her old serving-woman, 
that was nurse to both of us, wrote me at last as well 
as she could, poor creature, that can scarce write at 
all. She told me Essie had altered since the winter 
was over, and was no longer so dull, but sometimes 
in a kind of fever which, the old creature thought, 
made her almost wandering in her mind, though she 
would never to bed for it. And just as I was starting 
to go, Essie herself wrote me to come, and how she 
was ill, but would be married as soon as I pleased 
and go to America, and hoped so to get her health 
again. And I was fool enough to think all going 
very well.” 

He was silent. 

“ How long since was it that you returned ? ” asked 
Swift. 

“ About a month. I never thought to have found 
her so ill. I thought there could be nothing worse 
than her indifference to her life, but yet there was. 
For somehow — whether ’twas she had hurried down 
the valley of the shadow with an unnatural speed for 
one of her age and strength, or whether ’twas the 
spring coming, I know not, but somehow she had 
grown afeared of death. And ’twas too late, for she 
was very sick, though still walking about when I 
returned. She’d say to me : ‘I don’t want to die, 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


375 

Frank. I thought I did, but now I'm so sick I'm 
afeared on’t. Don't let me die. Take me to America, 
where you think I shall get well.' But I durstn’t, for 
she was not strong enough to bear the voyage. And 
then this fever came. That's but a few days since.'' 

“Poor dear Essie!” cried Swift in a trembling 
voice. “She would weep if she heard of a stranger 
that died young, and say what a dreadful thing it was 
to be cut off in the prime. She seemed so full of life, 
I cannot yet believe there's no hope.” 

“You will presently then see there's no room for 
it,” returned Francis. “There is no. room now for 
anything but repentance. And what can that avail ? ” 

“Young man,” returned Swift, “with God I trust 
it may, though not with you. He knows my blind- 
ness, and how much I have erred through that — how 
much through wilful sin.” 

“Were you to repent for a hundred years, and lash 
yourself worse than an enthusiast monk, "said Francis, 
“'twould not recall Essie to life, nor give me back 
Well, no matter.” 

“Mr. Mordaunt,” returned Swift solemnly, “if I 
could at this moment offer my miserable life in ex- 
change for hers, 'tis inexpressible how gladly I would 
do it.” 

“There's but one thing more that either you or 
I can do for her,” said Francis, “and that is to be 
with her before she dies.” 

They spurred their horses and trotted along the 
road by the river. The slow tears coursed each other 
down Swift’s cheeks as he rode, and he prayed long 
and earnestly that God would of His mercy spare the 
life of Esther Vanhomrigh, or if that might not be, 
that He would graciously receive her spirit, remem- 
bering her many virtues, and blotting out her sins 
from His book, or adding them to the sum of those 
for which the erring man now supplicating Him must 
one day answer. 

As they went on, the few and twinkling lights dis- 
appeared from the roadside cottages. The full white 
moon was high in the cloudless deep of heaven, and 
the sounds of the warm summer night were all about 


ESTHER VANHOMRICH. 


376 

their path ; the splash of leaping fish, the sleepy 
chirrup of birds disturbed by some night-wandering 
creature ; the song of the reed-warbler, the persistent 
chirring of the night-jar, and the occasional hoot of an 
owl, far off on some ancestral tree. It was such an 
exquisite May night, full of the mystery and beauty 
of moonlight and the scent of hawthorn, as makes the 
earth an Eden in which none but lovers should walk 
— happy lovers or young poets, whose large eyes, so 
blind in the daylight world of men, can see God walk- 
ingin the Garden. Somewhere, no doubt, in this wide 
beautiful world of night, those ever new creations 
were looking round with wonder and delight on their 
inheritance, but here on the banks of the Liffey there 
was none to enter into it. The weary labourers slept 
in their closed cottages, and nothing human was stir- 
ring except these two men, hurrying along the white 
road with no wish but to put it behind them as quickly 
as possible ; men united by a common sorrow, but 
divided by bitter feelings of resentment and remorse. 

Meantime at Cellbridge old Ann was anxiously 
awaiting the return of Master Francis. She was 
grown really old now, and though still strong enough 
in body to perform the functions of a nurse, she was 
nervous and unable to control her invalid. Esther 
had always refused to keep her bed. She sat propped 
up in a large chair by the fire. All day she had 
been breathing with difficulty, but in the evening she 
had seemed better and fallen into an uneasy slumber. 
Presently she woke, but her manner was so strange 
that though she said little, Ann feared she was wander- 
ing in her mind. She bade the old woman bring out 
and spread before her certain dresses lying by in a 
wardrobe ; fine clothes for which she had found little 
use during the past few >ears. One by one she looked 
at them all, and had them put away again, till at last 
a negligee of white silk brocade was unfolded from its 
wrappings of paper. 

“There, there ! ” she cried, “ I care nothing for the 
mode. I will have it white. Dress me in that.” 

‘ ‘ Alas, my pretty dear miss, ” returned the old nurse, 
“the dead may wear naught but woollen.” 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


377 


Esther smiled. 

“Come hither, Ann/' she said, and took the nurses 
hand when she was come close up to her. “You 
mistake. Tis no wonder you should, but ’tis all a 
mistake. I am not in a decline, as poor Moll was. 
Something dreadful came, I cannot remember what, 
but it touched my heart and turned it into a stone/’ 
And she laid Ann’s hand on her thin bosom. “ ’Tis a 
fearful pain — no, ’tis worse than pain, to walk about 
with a great stone in your bosom, and no doubt I 
must have died of it if he had not come. But he did 
come while I slept, and touched my heart himself. 
You can feel now ’tis quite warm and beats again. 
I am well this morning and, Ann, I am going to be 
married. My mamma will be pleased, won’t she ? ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, my poor lamb ! ” cried the old woman. * ‘ Pray 
recollect yourself and think of your latter end.” 

Esther laughed feebly. 

“Thou old infidel ! Do I not look well? Oh, sure 
I must ! Make haste now to dress my hair, for I dare 
not be late. He was ever exact.” 

She sat bolt upright in her chair, and with trem- 
bling fingers the old woman began to comb and pin up 
her thick hair. 

“Why, Ann, what are you doing?” asked Esther 
impatiently. “Where are my curls ? ” 

It was years since the mode of wearing a few curls 
loose on the neck had gone out, and she had long 
abandoned it. Ann, obedient to her fancy, arranged 
her fair curls in the old way. Then with extraordi- 
nary strength she rose, and pulling off her wrapper, 
began to put on the white silk negligee. Old Ann, 
seeing her not to be dissuaded, helped her on 
with it, and put more wraps round her. But she 
walked to the window letting them trail off her as 
she went. Drawing aside the curtain, ‘ ‘ Sunshine ! ” she 
said, smiling to herself, as she looked out on the 
moonlight ; “’tis well, very well.” 

And she returned smiling to her chair, as though she 
had pleasant thoughts. • Indeed, her wandering fancy 
had conjured up again the scene on the steps of the 
London church, on that May morning ten years ago. 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


378 

“I must have ’em,” she cried, “a great posy of 
’em. ’Twill be better than pearls for my wedding, 
for they do say pearls mean tears. And I won’t have 
any more tears, no, nor so much as think of them, 

for I have shed such a many Ah ! no one would 

believe ! Ann, call Thomas, and bid him bring 

me a fine posy of the blue forget-me-nots from the 
meadow by the river. There’s plenty of ’em there, 
all growing together. He can’t miss seeing them.” 

“God ha’ mercy on you, Miss Essie, my dear ! ” 
ejaculated the old woman trembling. “ Pray, pray 
to Him to give you back your senses before you go. ” 
“ If you’ll not call him, I must myself,” returned 
Esther pettishly, and rose to her feet, crying out 
feebly, “Thomas ! Thomas ! ” 

Ann would have replaced her in her chair, but 
could not, and the scant tears of age began to gather 
in her dim eyes. While she was still attempting to 
calm and restrain her nursling, she heard the creaking 
tread of men in riding boots coming up the stairs 
as softly as they might. She desisted from her 
attempts as Francis, opening the door, stood on one 
side and let the Dean pass before him. 

Swift, lividly pale, but making a great effort to 
restrain his emotion, advanced two steps into the 
room and paused. He had expected to see a figure 
stretched upon the bed, perhaps unconscious ; per- 
haps alive enough to whisper reproach or forgiveness. 
He saw Esther fully dressed, upright, though leaning 
with one hand on the foot of the bed. She was fear- 
fully changed since he had seen her last. Her cheeks 
were hollow ; her neck and arms, a few months ago 
so round and white, were wasted and bloodless. He 
was shocked at her appearance, yet it was by no 
means so deathlike as it had been earlier in the day ; 
for her eyes glittered with an unnatural brightness, 
and there was a feverish colour in her cheeks. As 
soon as she saw him she stepped up to him with sur- 
prising firmness, and putting her two hands on his 
shoulders, said, looking at him tenderly — 

“So you are come, Cadenus.” 

“Yes, yes, I came immediately, Missessy,” he 


ESTHER VA NIIOMRIGH, 


379 

answered, pulling down one of her hands and holding 
it in his own. 

“I knew you would be punctual to your time, ” 
she returned. “I am glad the morning is so fair. 
Do you remember what the old woman said? 
‘ Happy the bride the sun shines on ' ! ” 

“Get her back, and let me close this door,” said 
Francis. 

“No, no, let us go out,” said Esther. “They all 
talk as though I were sick, but I am quite cured, 
am I not, Cadenus? You know how.” 

‘ 1 1 trust in God it may be so, ” answered Swift, chok- 
ing with tears and bowing his face upon her hand. 

“Yes, I am very well. Let us make haste, for the 
people are all waiting to see. Why should we hide? 
I want them all to see the happiest, proudest woman 
in the world. Your bride — O Heavens, Cadenus ! — 
your wife.” 

And flingingherarms round his neck she buried her 
head in his bosom. 

“ O God,” he groaned, “ O God ! ” 

Then, controlling his anguish by a great effort, he 
spoke gently and firmly in her ear. 

“ Essie, I implore you in the name of our Saviour 
to put away these deceitful fancies, and remember 
what has passed and who and where we are.” 

She raised her head and stood before him, looking 
in his. face with an anxious bewildered gaze. 

“Essie,” he went on with clasped hands and the 
tears running down his cheeks, “ I have come hither 
to acknowledge my fault and earnestly beg your 
forgiveness.” 

As he spoke, the light of reason slowly dawned in 
her eyes, and the brilliancy of fever began to fade. 
She made a step or two backward and caught hold of 
the bedpost with one hand. 

“Hesskin,”he said, “I have been a poor friend 
to you.” 

She fixed her eyes on him with an intent look of 
full recognition, and leaned back against the bed. 

Francis closed the door gently. Esther did not 
speak, but the look which she had fixed upon Swift 
grew to be a look of horror and anguish. 


380 


ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 


“Forgive me,” he tried to say, covering his face 
with his hand. 

She did not move, except that he thought he saw 
her stagger and stepped forward to catch hold of her. 
She audibly gasped, and made a movement as though 
to repel his hands. Then again she looked on him 
with that dreadful gaze. It seemed to him an eternity 
that he stood with bowed head beneath it, but it was 
really but a few seconds. Then she fell backwards 
on the bed, and before a hand could be stretched to save 
her, rolled heavily on to the floor. So quickly they 
knew not how it was done, Swift and Francis lifted 
her back on to the bed, and each peered in her face, 
oblivious of the other. The stamp of death was set 
upon it. Old Ann put a feather into Francis’ hand, 
and he held it to his cousin’s mouth, but neither of 
the two men eagerly bending over her could be cer- 
tain whether or no she yet breathed. Surely, surely 
she must. Unconsciously their hands met upon her 
bosom, and beneath those two hands, touching each 
other now for the last time, the stormy heart of Esther 
Vanhomrigh heaved once and was for ever still. 


THE END. 





















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